


Light the Flame

by Jael_Lyn



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jael_Lyn/pseuds/Jael_Lyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war on terror takes a strange turn in Cascade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light the Flame

**Light the Flame**  

 

_"America, with the collaboration of the Jews, is the leader of corruption and the breakdown [of values], whether moral, ideological, political, or economic corruption. It disseminates abomination and licentiousness among the people via the cheap media and the vile curricula."_

_"America is the reason for all oppression, injustice, licentiousness, or suppression that is the Muslims' lot. It stands behind all the disasters that were caused and are still being caused to the Muslims; it is immersed in the blood of Muslims and cannot hide this."_

_Al-Qa'ida spokesman Suleiman Abu Gheith explaining September 11, 2001_

 

Simon Banks looked wearily over his paper covered desk, wishing for a better answer than what tumbled from his mouth. "Jim, I promise you. We'll make it work, and I'll make it up to you. I just can't cut you and Sandburg loose right now." If he hadn't been an experienced Ellison watcher, Simon would have missed it; the imperceptible shift of weight, the hand that flinched but didn't quite ball up into a fist. The protesting voice was deceptively calm. "We've gone nearly three weeks without a day off, sir. That doesn't even count the extra hours. We need a break."

Simon struggled to keep the impatience out of his voice. The situation wasn't any better in his office than it was in the bullpen. Even though Jim was in the right, Simon didn't appreciate him pressing the point. "I'm well aware of that. Unfortunately, we're not discussing whether you deserve the time. We're discussing whether I can give it, and I can't." The blue eyes across the desk from him closed briefly. From any other officer pushed this far, he would have read it as simple fatigue, but from Jim, it was more likely an effort to control his temper. Jim had too much respect for chain-of-command drilled into him to lose it. It suddenly occurred to Simon that Sandburg wouldn't have felt so inhibited. No doubt Jim had dumped him elsewhere by design, just so he could have this discussion by himself.

Simon's gut twisted. He'd been given no other options, but he couldn't ignore his detective's pallor, the dark smears under those intense eyes, or the slightest slump in the normally erect carriage. "Look, Jim, you and Blair did a hell of a job closing those murders. No one could have gotten a more professional resolution, and we both know how much pressure was coming down – from the media, politically from city hall…" He stopped and sighed. He was preaching to the choir. He rose and came out from behind the desk, dropping into one of the chairs around his small office conference table, gesturing to Jim to do the same. "You both deserve better, but I only have two teams tonight, and you're one of them. Every department had to contribute to the task force. We're cut to the bone."

Jim snorted wearily. "Homeland security. Right. While our guys are running around clueless in Seattle, what happens to Cascade security? Does someone really think the regular criminals take a holiday because Al-Qaida might show up on the coast somewhere? Sometime? Maybe on Tuesday under a full moon?"

Simon was sick of parroting the party line, but he did it anyway. "It was deemed a credible threat. My opinion wasn't exactly requested, and you damn well know it. If it's any consolation, the governor probably wasn't asked, either."

"Right. Some federal idiot is watching out over the ignorant down in the trenches. Our guys are probably in a machine gun nest at the top of the Space Needle, keeping America safe. I feel so much better."

"Can it, Jim." Simon made the effort to muster an administrative air. "The sarcasm is wasted on me. You know better. The port security alone would break any organization, and they have a hell of a lot more to watch than just the port. If they need our personnel, we have an obligation to be there. If the situations were reversed, they'd be here helping us."

Jim's only answer this time was to stare into the gathering gloom. Dusk came early in January when you lived in Cascade. When he finally spoke, there was no missing the edge of rebellion in his voice. "Sandburg's at the loft, and I'm leaving him there. I don't care if the shift starts at six or not. I'll work a couple hours solo. He needs some rest." He stared at Simon defiantly.

Simon was on the verge of barking out a reprimand, and held it back. He vowed not to let irritation turn him into a total jerk. His people, Ellison and Sandburg included, deserved any consideration he could manage. "Is this about Sandburg? Or is he just your excuse?"

Jim's eyes flared, but his voice stayed level. "Isn't that the drill, sir? You don't want the details? One of those 'details' is that he carries a double load. Sentinels stretched thin are a high maintenance item." Jim looked away, and continued. "You should keep that in mind, Captain, even if you don't want to know." The last comment had a touch of extra venom.

 _ _Ah, so we've both taken our cheap shot, Jim.__ Simon forced a rueful smile, hoping to remove a bit of the tension on both sides. "You're right. I have a better idea. I'll cover until nine or ten. Make it ten. Go home and get a couple hours rest yourself. On your way back, pick up some food for the three of us and I'll brief you while we eat. I'm sorry, Jim, it's the best I can do."

The sudden change of direction in the conversation seemed to take Jim back. He pulled at a thread on the seam of his chinos. "I know you're doing what you can, Simon. I was out of line," Jim said quietly.

"No, you weren't," Simon retorted. "A tired cop can be a dead cop. I won't fault you for watching out for your partner." _And yourself, not that you'd admit that, either_. "Get out of here. And bring something decent back for dinner! No crap from Wonder Burger."

Simon waited until Jim disappeared through the main doors to Major Crime and had time to make the elevator. Satisfied that those particular set of sensitive ears were out of range, he stormed to his desk, muttering a few choice comments en route. He pulled the duty rosters out of his desk drawer, tempted to relieve his frustration and tear them to bits. Maybe call that idiot federal functionary Ellison had mentioned and chew some ass.

Simon shook his head, recognizing the futility of feeding his own temper. There had to be some slack in the assignments somewhere. Sandburg and Ellison were in no shape to chase all over town on this particular night, and then follow it up with more double shifts and triple workloads. A few hours of sleep just weren't going to cut it.

The sheets were covered with his own cryptic scribbles, changed over and over trying to make the impossible at least probable. Apparently it was time to add a few more revisions.

&&&&

Blair was asleep. He could tell by the cadence of his respiration. Jim turned the key in the lock ever so slowly, trying not to make a sound. A string of silent profanities crossed his lips when the door creaked as it swung open. Another one of a million things he'd had to let go. He peeked around the door apprehensively.

As he expected, Sandburg hadn't made it to his room after being dropped off. That creak would have sent a sentinel straight through the roof, but Blair's breathing remained soft and steady. Thank God. If anything, his partner looked worse than he did. Jim closed the door softly, wincing as it squeaked a second time.

He studied the slumbering figure stretched on the couch. Sandburg had managed to toe off his shoes, but both legs dangled onto the floor. His head had slipped off the cushion and was twisted at an awkward angle. Jim considered lifting him into a more comfortable position or at least covering him up, but decided to leave the exhausted man in pretzel position. Nothing was worth costing Blair even a few moments of precious sleep. He opted to click the heat up instead and headed to the kitchen for something to drink.

Jim settled into a chair opposite Sandburg, considering their dilemma. It really wasn't fair to lean on Simon. All their choices were lousy, but so was the truth. Stress and fatigue frayed his control. To compensate, Blair projected a steady calm, ever-watchful for potential problems. It took energy to stifle your own emotions to be the sanctuary for someone else, to always be anticipating the next need and deal with it. Blair was worn to the bone and beyond, too proud to complain and too dedicated to step back.

Jim gulped the water. He should be starved, but he could wait until dinner. Scrounging a snack would require way too much effort. Actually, a shower before a nap sounded pretty good. He'd just finish off the water...

He'd misjudged. As the last pale shreds of daylight sparkled across the bay, Detective Ellison was a twin to his partner – stocking feet propped up on the coffee table, head flopped back onto the chair cushions. The half-consumed bottle of spring water resting on his lap, cupped in a limp hand, was as close to the shower as the exhausted man was going to get.

&&&&

It was a beautiful city. Even in the rain of winter, it was a beautiful city.

Reynard Fischer sipped his cappuccino, watching the elite as they left their offices, bustling to their destinations in expensive cars. Comfortable, complacent, educated people. Were he sitting in the city of his birth, the view would not be appreciably different. He had grown up in their world and come to despise them. Hated their immorality, their selfishness, their wealth, their absorption with the latest consumer gadget or tonight's party. They should be punished, would be punished. Not everyone understood his vision, his methods, but that would change. The moment was drawing near, just a few more days.

Dusk approached, and the rain had started again. His day at the office was complete. His business, importing German goods and exporting certain American specialties, was thriving. He was well respected among the business community, known as a supporter of the arts, a contributor to local charities. He was welcomed as an insider; his contacts rarely considered his foreign origins. He had cultivated those attitudes carefully. He had many other things, more important things to accomplish. He always allowed himself these moments to contemplate; a quiet coffee, sometimes a pastry. Then he would walk to his apartment, lovely, elegant place that it was. He would hang his suit neatly in the closet, perhaps make a sandwich, and gracefully slide into his other role, the one which held purpose and promise and passion.

As he raised his umbrella, he smiled at the irony. He had waited for so long. The fools would never know.

&&&&

"You sure you want this heap, sir? We have plenty of nicer vehicles."

Simon scrawled his signature across the motor pool form. "It'll do just fine."

Officer Painter handed over the keys with a shrug. Who could figure out captains anyway? "It's all gassed up. Shotgun and Kevlar in the trunk, standard radio gear, emergency supplies. There was a note about the wipers not working too well, and I'm not sure anyone had time to look at them."

"Everyone's shorthanded, son. Hold down the fort." Simon ambled toward his vehicle of choice, a big Caddy from the early nineties, probably rescued from the impound lot years ago. The extra leg room more than made up for any modern amenities. Big men had their own priorities. He checked his service revolver and backup piece, trying to remember the last time he'd been on street patrol in plain clothes. The three-piece suit hung neatly in his office, replaced by jeans and a heavy sweater from his locker. The formal top coat looked a bit silly, but necessary. It would be a rainy, cold night in Cascade. If Ellison and Sandburg got a little bit of rest, it would be worth it.

His stomach fluttered. Oh yeah, the nerves. Who would have thought? After all these years, from the beat to detective to captain, the nerves were still there. Would it be routine? Would the next traffic stop be a drunk or a shoot-out? Time to find out.

He settled into the vehicle, adjusted the mirror, and studied his own reflection. He looked like shit. His own days had been long, right along with his detectives. This little burst of adrenaline would wear off. He could stop off at Starbucks and go for a double espresso or something. He pulled into traffic and started his solo on the street, feeling confident and relaxed despite himself. What could happen in a couple of hours, anyway?

&&&&

_Make it go away._

_Mice. Must be mice. Tell Jim._

"I am not a mouse, Sandburg."

"Mmmph?" Blair cracked one eye open. A fuzzy figure that resembled Jim loomed over him. Said figure tickled the end of his nose – Blair swatted awkwardly and came away with a crumpled tear-out from a magazine. He flopped back on the couch. "Quit harassing me. I was sleeping. Wasn't I sleeping? Mice?"

"Yeah. You were muttering about mice. Guess that was my fault."

Blair pushed himself into a sitting position, every bone and muscle aching. Jim's image cleared, the mischievous smirk diminished by blue eyes drooping with fatigue. "Then why are you waking me up? What'd I do? You look like shit, by the way."

"Don't check the mirror out any too soon yourself." Jim joined him on the couch. He plucked the magazine card from the cushions and elaborately smoothed the crinkles along his thigh. "Sorry. I didn't have the heart to shake you. I tortured your ear first, but it didn't work." He flicked the card onto the coffee table. "We have to go back to work."

"Quit jerking me around." Blair closed his eyes, aching to drift back into slumber. "Simon didn't buy it, huh?"

"Simon couldn't buy it, Chief. Try not to fall asleep again. We have enough time to shower. I just woke up too."

Blair looked bleakly around the loft. It was full dark outside. "You can't be serious. What time is it?"

"A little before nine."

"Crap. We're late. "Blair's head flopped back. He'd slept almost five hours and it hadn't helped much. "Aren't there labor laws? Not to mention that we look scarier than the criminals."

"Go stand under the shower. It will make you a new man. Besides, no one cares if we're scary. We're supposed to meet Simon with dinner at ten."

"Meet Simon?" The realization slowly dawned on Blair's face. "He took our spot on the street?'

"Yeah, and I didn't even feel guilty enough to turn down the offer." Jim stood up and headed for the stairs. "Go. I'll find us some clean clothes."

Blair struggled to his feet, but didn't get any farther. "Coffee. I need coffee." He called to Jim's back as it disappeared up the stairs. "And we have no clean clothes! Laundry is a myth experienced by people who have time off."

"Quit bitching," Jim ordered, leaning over the railing. "So I'll find us some less filthy clothes and call it good. Now shower." He chuckled at his partner's stumbling progress. "That's it, Sandburg. One foot in front of the other"

"Coffee!"

"And coffee," Jim said with a laugh. "Just keep moving. I'm kicking you out in five minutes, so don't waste your precious time."

Jim let his ears follow his partner's slow progression to the bathroom, items of clothing hitting the floor along the way. What the hell, the rest of the loft was a disaster from prolonged neglect. A few more clothes wouldn't make any difference. At least the towels hadn't smelled like mildew the last time he'd been in there.

Jim rummaged through his hamper, reclaiming a pair of jeans that weren't too disgusting. The closet yielded a flannel that was his least favorite color, but wearable. He dumped them on the couch on the way to the kitchen. If his partner wanted coffee, he got coffee.

Well, maybe not. Jim shook the last few grounds of coffee into the filter and stared morosely at the empty container. An empty fridge he could live with, but they were really at rock bottom if they were out of coffee. They might as well be without air. Jim leaned his forehead against the cupboard door, almost overwhelmed. He wanted to unleash a primal scream. Where was his orderly life? The neatly organized leftovers, the canned goods sorted into neat lines on the shelves, the clean socks in the drawers? If the job wasn't going to bring him to his knees, general chaos might do the trick instead.

Keep moving. Just keep moving. That was the ticket. Jim shook his head to clear it, and dialed the number for some deli takeout. They could get their coffee on the road, and besides, Simon would have his head if he didn't bring in something decent.

&&&&

Simon signed off with dispatch. Three plus hours felt like three damn days. What a reality check. Next administrative meeting with Chief Warren, he'd be raising hell. Every last one of his fellow commanders should live this firsthand.

It was one thing to see the shortage on paper, from his backside, comfortably ensconced behind a desk. His night was busy enough, but curiosity had moved him to monitor the radio traffic. Patrols were racing from one crisis to the next. Procedures were a fleeting memory. Crime scenes weren't being adequately secured. The vast majority of detectives were either in Seattle or diverted to street patrol, Ellison and Sandburg a case in point. Without timely investigative follow-up, evidence collection was a joke. The pitifully few arrests they might make would yield fewer convictions. The cases would be full of holes.

Calls were stacked up and response time wasn't worth shit. At least half the patrols were running solo. No one was free for backup. Only guardian angels and sheer dumb luck were keeping them safe. God help them if the criminal element figured out Cascade was basically an open invitation.

To top it off, motor pool had been right. The damn wipers didn't work! He'd spent the night peering through blurry sheets of water. How many other vehicles were out here without proper maintenance, putting the officers and the public in danger? His head ached from eyestrain and frustration. He was going in, but damn if he wasn't coming back out. His butt could be out here on the line, just like everyone else.

His last call had been a breaking and entering called in by an elderly woman. The job was just too smooth, too practiced to be kids on a romp. A five minute conversation with Mrs. Longtin had him fuming. Neighbors up and down the adjacent streets had been hit over the last few weeks. This was a gang on a roll, no doubt hitting homes they thought vulnerable. The department should have been all over these guys.

Simon gritted his teeth. The operative word was "should". He "should" have been able to get a forensics team. He "should" have gotten extra patrol in the area immediately. The department "should" have noted a pattern weeks ago and acted accordingly. No one had the time. Instead, the public got a desk jockey taking an extra look while heading back to the barn.

He cruised the darkened neighborhood slowly, taking a circuitous route. It was a long shot, but it wasn't unusual for operations like this to hit more than one house in a given night. The conditions definitely weren't in his favor. Mrs. Longtin was a relic leftover from an earlier time, still living in the home she'd shared with her husband for fifty some years. Gentrification hadn't made it this far. Homes, many of them rentals, were ill-kept and poorly lit. A fair share of the streetlights were broken or dark. The rain had picked up, blurring his vision.

There. Movement in a side yard, but he couldn't be sure. Simon continued down the block, turned the corner and cut the lights. It was a long shot, but he was too damn angry and frustrated not to try. It was also lousy recon, but so what? He'd never get backup here in time to do it right.

The alley would be his best bet. Flipping up the collar of his coat, Simon ducked into the driving rain and blended into the night.

&&&&

Blair held one of three white takeout bags to his nose and breathed deeply. "Oh, man, there must be two hundred calories just in the smell. How can you stand it?"

"What happened to 'I'm too tired to move'? You sound positively perky."

"Perky? Give me a break. Pastrami on rye happened. What else is in here?" Blair asked, rustling among the bags.

"Put that stuff down. That's for me to know. Make yourself useful and call the station."

"Mr. Impatient doesn't want to wait on our commanding officer?" Blair asked with a grin.

"Has nothing to do with impatience. It has to do with guilt. Simon hasn't exactly been on vacation since we started this nightmare. If he goes down, gets sick or something, the rest of us are screwed."

"Good point." Blair checked with dispatch and relayed the information to his partner, not that Jim really needed him to repeat it. "He left his last call thirty minutes ago and was on his way in. He should be there before we are."

"That's because we're running late," Jim noted.

"Not my fault, man. It was either smelly socks or stop at Wal-Mart. You voted for stopping."

"I plead self-defense," Jim said wryly. "If we don't so laundry soon, I won't even get in the door of the loft."

"I'll see what I can do," Blair said seriously.

"I didn't mean it was your problem, Chief. We'll work something out. Maybe take a whole truckload to some wash and fold place." "That won't work, Jim. Industrial detergents? You'll be running the streets naked just to keep from scatting your skin raw." Blair avoided his eyes, staring out into the night. _Good job, Ellison. Have him fretting over laundry. Pile it on, why not?_

The remainder of the ride in passed in silence.

&&&&

Reynard Fischer glared at his subordinate. The young man was nearly quaking in his shoes, a total idiot, but the only man he could spare. "You understand? We can afford no mistakes."

The younger man shrank back, then asked in his typical tortured English. "Please - why we don't kill him?'

"No! You are not required to think," Fischer nearly shouted, reining himself in at the last moment. Even idiots had their uses, and this child enjoyed thinking he was part of the inner circle. He tried to be patient. "Joseph, if his body is not discovered, there will be doubt." He spoke slowly, insisting as always their conversations be in English. Not that it did any good with Joseph. "When an American policeman is killed the pursuit is rabid. We do not want that. An abandoned car will cause questions, but not a manhunt." He sighed inwardly. Joseph's blank expression revealed how little he actually comprehended. Best to go for simplicity, and make sure Joseph knew what to do, even if why eluded him. "Now, repeat your instructions back to me."

The young man fished out a cigarette and lit it, aiming for an air of confidence. He failed miserably as his shaking hands fumbled with the lighter. "Take the car. Do not hurry; break no traffic - signs." Fischer winced at the mangled English, but let him continue. "Wear fingers."

"Gloves, Joseph. They are gloves," Fischer corrected. He struggled to keep his face neutral. Joseph was hopeless, but at least he knew to cover his hands with something. "Where are you to go?" Fischer asked. "To the ocean – a – park."

"Which park?" Fischer demanded, again ready to lose his temper. To his dismay, it took Joseph several moments to remember.

"Overtop, overhang – no, overlook. Overlook Park." Joseph smiled, apparently feeling very satisfied with himself. His pronunciation was awful. Fischer wanted to strangle him. If he were stopped, there would be no end of problems, but any officer would probably reach frustration level before disaster. "Continue," he said firmly.

"Leave the car in the parking area. Walk to the quick store and wait to be picked up."

Fisher sighed. They had worked on that repeatedly, and Joseph STILL thought convenience stores were quick stores. Hopeless. "The coat," Fischer said impatiently. "You have forgotten the coat."

"Yes, yes. Leave the coat near the edge."

"Joseph! Pay attention! It must appear that he dropped it. Make sure it does not go into the water. Climb over the railing and arrange it, if necessary." The older man's gaze turned back to the bloodied man lying on the floor, then to the identification in his hand. An ordinary police officer was a dreaded complication. A police captain, a commander of men, was unimaginable. Their luck could not have been worse, tonight of all nights. This huge, physically capable man had come at the wrong moment, with too many questions. Even outnumbered, he had nearly overwhelmed them.

What was such a man doing, springing out of the night? Fischer had selected this neighborhood, this house as a base because it was of no account to anyone. No patrols, no bothersome questions. What could this man's appearance mean? Had they been penetrated? He had no indication his activities had been discovered, or even suspected. Was this man acting alone, or was his presence some cosmic accident?

So many worries. Fischer gestured to his errand boy. "Remember every detail. You must be precise."

"I will not fail," Joseph said.

"See that you don't," Fischer answered grimly, and waved the man away. It had taken time to find this police captain's vehicle, and surely the authorities would be looking for him soon. If only he had someone else he could spare, but he had no time to get better than Joseph. Tonight's shipment was his true priority.

Calm, be calm, he urged himself as Joseph nearly ran out the door. No one saw the struggle on this rainy, gloomy night. There had been little noise. What could happen if Joseph failed utterly, and was caught? This was not Egypt or Saudi Arabia. The local police would not torture a student with atrocious English for a traffic violation, and the young fool would not break immediately even if they questioned him. No real harm would be done. They had time. One merely had to be clever.

Fischer turned to the others gathered in the room, waiting anxiously for his decisions. At a minimum, they needed to secure their unfortunate visitor. He pointed to one of the men, his most reliable operative. "You will stay with me and see to this one. The rest of you, reload the vehicles and leave immediately. Our delivery south will go as planned, with three cars instead of four. Follow the plan exactly and you will have no problems. I expect you back in the morning."

He gestured to the unconscious man, bound and blindfolded. "This one is to be guarded constantly, but from a distance. Do not speak within his hearing. We will do nothing with him until I return." He started for the door.

"And if there are problems?"

Reynard considered the question. Ibrahim was French, at least on his official passport, the son of immigrant parents from North Africa. They had worked together for years, unlike the others who came and went like butterflies on the breeze. Because he had exposure to western ways, his judgment and dedication could be trusted.

"Kill him."

&&&&

"There's no sign of him, Detective. He's not answering any radio communications. There's been no report of an incident. I just don't know what to say." Sergeant Mitch Powell's brow furrowed. "I don't lose people, not on my watch. Not in thirty years, and I'm not about to start now."

Blair set the phone down. "Daryl's home. He hasn't seen his dad, and Simon didn't call or leave a message. I'm afraid I freaked him out a little. Where could he be?"

"Mitch, play the tape of his last call for me again." The others waited as Jim listened intently. The normal chaos of central dispatch swirled around them, but Jim seemed oblivious. After two more tries, he shook his head. "Simon's last communication of record sounded perfectly normal. Show me the grid."

Powell spread the detailed map of Cascade in front of them. He was old-fashioned and preferred the heavy coated paper to a computer screen. "Here was his last call, a Mrs. Etta Longtin. His last call –." He paused to look at the clock. "That was almost two hours ago. He could have covered a lot of ground in two hours."

Jim's voice was sharp. "Put out an APB on the Cadillac. Get every available unit down in that area, on foot if possible."

"Detective, I can't," Powell protested. "It's nuts around here. There is no such thing as an available unit. Besides, I don't really have the authority."

Jim clenched his fists in frustration. "Who can we call?"

"Search me. We're way out of chain of command. Warren maybe?"

"Do it, but put out the APB first," Jim said tersely. "I'll take responsibility. Sandburg and I will go see Mrs. Longtin and work from there."

"I'll pull out all the stops, Jim. It may take us awhile to get things moving. You boys forget about normal patrol and just figure out what happened. I'll cover your area somehow." He gripped Jim on the shoulder. "Get out there, son. Something's not right here."

Jim started to leave, then turned back. "Mitch, call Joel Taggart, too. He's second in command of Major Crime if anything happens to Banks. I have a feeling we're going to need him."

"You got it."

&&&&

The flashing lights froze Joseph's hands on the wheel. He willed himself not to yield to panic and race away from the area. The pickup truck flashed by on the cross-street, but seemed to take no notice him.

The car in front of him made a right turn, heading in the same direction as the truck. Did the police know? He was in the police officer's car. Were they searching for him, even now? Perhaps he should go back, get further instructions?

No, he couldn't go back. It would not be tolerated. He was more afraid of the Commander than the police. There was no pleasing the man.

After a deep breath, he made his own left turn, heading away from the area. He would do as he had been told, and do it perfectly. He could avoid the freeway and major roads. It really wasn't that far. Wiser heads than his were planning, watching. He was a true believer, after all, not afraid to sacrifice everything for paradise. He would show how he could be trusted.

&&&&

"Mrs. Longtin, are you sure you can't think of anything else? Any indication of where the Captain was going?"

Mrs. Longtin took a small sip of tea from a teacup as fragile as she. "Please, it's Etty. He was awfully upset, as I said. Very disappointed that no one would come to collect fingerprints and such. Honestly, I think he was ready to go hunt someone down all by himself. He got all the names and addresses I knew." She set her cup down. "At one time, I could tell you about the family in every house. This was such a lovely neighborhood. Now people come and go. They're just people, not families who care about the neighborhood. They're strangers to me." She sighed, and shrugged her thin shoulders. "Times change."

Blair looked at the list she'd given him, written in a delicate, precise hand. No doubt Simon had a duplicate in his pocket. He couldn't think of anything else to ask. Jim was prowling around the rest of the house, hoping to get a clue. Blair was afraid they were coming up empty. Apparently he didn't hide his worry very well. Either that, or Etty Longtin used a lifetime of wisdom to read him. "Young man, I'm sure your captain is all right. He was a very impressive man, you know."

"Yes, ma'am. He is that," Blair said, warmed by her sincerity. Jim looked around doorway, giving him the high sign. The search must have concluded and it was time to leave. "Are you sure I can't get someone to stay with you?"

Mrs. Longtin set her cup down with authority. "I've been in this house over fifty years. I'm not letting some young fools chase me out." She shook her finger for emphasis. "They're just cowards, you know. If someone's home, they don't dare come in." She picked up her cane. "Besides, I'll whack them."

Blair offered his arm as they both stood. He couldn't help but smile. "Well, maybe 911 would be better than whacking." He handed her a card. "That's my cell number. You promise me if you see anything suspicious, you call me right away. I don't care what time it is. Now give me your word."

"Oh, all right. Such a fuss, young man." She walked them to the door. "Did you find anything, Detective?" she asked Jim.

"Not much, but we have a start. Thank you for your help, ma'am. We'll be in touch, and check on you in the next few days, but you follow my partner's advice." They started down the porch steps. "You leave your porch lights on, too."

"Goodnight, detectives," she called after them.

The lights came on behind them. The two men dashed down the walk, trying to miss the worst of the steady rain. Jim was snickering as he climbed into the cab.

"What?" Blair asked, shuddering as water trickled down his neck. It hardly seemed a humorous moment.

"Feisty old bird," Jim said. "She was muttering as we left. 'Porch lights, smorch lights. I'll just whack 'em.' She'll probably do more good than we will."

"Do we have anything?" Blair asked.

"Nothing that will help. I'll lay odds Simon went looking for them."

"So we check out the addresses."

Jim shook his head. "I don't think so. Simon's big on procedure. If he went somewhere specific, he would have called it in."

Blair nodded in agreement. "Okay, so he headed back on the scenic route, just nosing around. He could be anywhere, but something pretty drastic would have to happen to keep him from notifying dispatch. Now what?"

"We do what he did. Cruise the streets. Hope we spot something. If it comes to it, we'll work a grid on foot." Jim began to drive, window down on the truck, cruising slowly. After a few minutes, he pulled to the curb. "Swap me places. I need to listen."

"That's a first. You sure you trust me?" Blair slid over as Jim came around to the passenger side.

"Of course I trust YOU, Sandburg. It's you AND the truck that worries me. Just keep it under ten. We should be safe."

Blair snorted. "Always the comedian. Don't give up your day job."

"I don't have a day job. It's a morning, noon and night job. Now drive and let me concentrate." Another five minutes and the radio crackled to life. A silent alarm at a convenience store. "Send someone else," Jim snapped in response.

The disembodied voice from the radio crackled with tension. "There is no one else! Repeat, you are the only available unit! We have a multiple car pileup on the interstate."

"On our way," growled Jim. "Shit. If Simon's really in trouble, we're screwed."

Blair hit the gas.

&&&&

The café was quiet, but then he wasn't here for companionship. Free, anonymous internet access was the draw. A few groups of late night students chatted, perhaps a professor or two. Reynard Fischer placed his order, eager to get to a finish his business.

He was so very careful, never using the same location more often than once a month. True to the German half of his genetics, he meticulously recorded his visits, avoiding any patterns. Each night, or early in the morning, depending on his schedule, he sent and received email. Always there were instructions. Those he executed faithfully, supporting his brothers scattered about the United States. Being so close to the Canadian border, he was often called upon to arrange transportation or provide temporary identities. Most frequently, he received and transferred supplies. His legitimate import-export business made a perfect screen for his activities. He was a well-respected German entrepreneur, with homes on two continents. His true loyalties were buried deep. As long as he was careful and clever, no U.S. authorities would ever look his way.

Tonight he would be sending messages. His comrades in Seattle – he could imagine the celebration when his cars arrived. Despite the discovery of their original cache and the flood of security personnel into Seattle, finally they would be able to proceed. He smiled with satisfaction as his hands flew across the keyboard. Soon, even tomorrow, they should have news of a great victory. His contributions would not go unnoticed this time. At long last, the timing would be right to demonstrate his own ideas.

&&&&

_Damn, that hurt. Actually, what didn't hurt? Where was he?_

_Okay, take inventory. Cuffed, behind the back. Dark. Blindfold, and just plain dark. Maybe a closed room, lights off. Something on the face; dry, itchy._

_Someone else in the room, behind him, breathing._

"Hey! Hey, you!"

Silence. Simon rolled to the side, managing an awkward half-sit. His head spun. A concussion would probably be a good guess. Yeah, someone took him out from behind. "I know you're there." Footsteps echoed on a bare floor, a door closed. He could hear the murmur of voices, just barely. What he wouldn't give for Ellison's hearing.

The door opened. Two sets of feet, one of which stepped firmly on his chest and pushed him to the floor. With no way to brace himself, his head bounced, sending flashes of pain through his skull. Definitely a concussion.

Rough hands flipped him face down, someone fiddled with the cuffs. They were snapped down over his wrists again, too tight, but at least in front. At least two men, one on each side, hauled him to his feet and pushed him along. He tried to count steps, gauge direction. Instead, he stumbled, and they dragged him along.

He protested. Still no direct answer.

He was shoved to the floor, and a door slammed behind him. Awkwardly, he pushed the blindfold away from his eyes. It was stiff with blood. He was in a tiny, grubby bathroom, on his knees. Shakily, he pulled himself up, using the sink to balance.

The reflection in the mirror looked pretty grim. One eye was nearly swollen shut, with a trail of blood streaking down his cheek from brow to chin. He was sure there was a lump and more blood on the back. He reached behind and probed gently with stiff fingers. It was pretty bad. What had they hit him with?

He turned the water on. The rust-stained flood convinced him to leave it running. He stumbled to the toilet. The inventor of zippers hadn't planned for handcuffs. Relieving himself was awkward, and the stream tinged with blood. Not good news.

He finished and turned back to the sink. The water ran clear and it was warm. He cupped water to his mouth, then splashed water on his face, rubbing at the mess of blood and dirt. They must have dragged him through the yard after he went down. His sweater and jeans were smeared with mud. His vision cleared enough to read the note taped to the mirror:

 

TRY TO ESCAPE AND DIE

BE SILENT

COVER YOUR EYES AND KNOCK

 

He straightened up, barely able to stand. He wasn't strong enough for an escape attempt, not yet. The sky beyond the tiny bathroom window was lightening. It had to be early morning. The only good news was that someone was surely looking for him.

Reluctantly, he picked up the soiled bandana and settled it over his eyes. He could play the game – for now.

&&&&

Joseph wound his way carefully into the park. He sat quietly in the car after shutting off the engine. With the wipers stopped, rain sheeted off the windshield. What a cursed country, gray clouds blotting out the sun, constantly cold and wet. And now he was supposed to tromp about in this flood – drop the coat, and walk down to his pickup point.

He shivered involuntarily. He hated to even think of it – puddles filling his shoes, water dripping down his neck. Perhaps he could wait until the rain stopped, or forget the coat. Surely that coat couldn't be as important as the Commander imagined. The idea was so tempting. What difference could it possibly make?

The wail of a siren interrupted his thoughts, faint but getting closer. Joseph vaulted from the car, dragging the coat with him. He was running as the car door slammed on the fabric, jerking him off his feet. He scrambled back on hands and knees, freed the coat and ran blindly towards the railings that separated the parking area from the ocean.

The sirens were closer. He hurled the coat into the darkness. Instead of going over, it flopped over the railing. Joseph yanked hard. The coat whipped free, and a chorus of items jangled to the pavement. Would nothing go right? He gathered the material into a ball and tried again. The sirens still rang in his ears. They must be coming for him.

Down on his hands and knees, Joseph scrabbled along the asphalt, desperate to get away. It was too dark to really see. He stuffed whatever he could find into his pockets – some coins, a case of some kind - and fled. By the time he realized the sirens had passed him by, he had no courage to go back and check his work.

&&&&

The Ford jolted over the speed bump, and Jim squealed to a stop. Taggart was waiting for them in the parking lot. Rafe's car was there, but no sign of him or Brown. Megan was still en-route.

Blair bolted from the passenger side. "Joel, what's going on?"

"Nothing. It's still just us."

Jim swore softly. "I can't believe Warren would leave his own people out to dry."

"Warren wouldn't, but he's still on a plane from the east coast. Everyone else is too gun-shy to move, and the mayor decided it's premature to panic. It might not be that serious – unquote. As a matter of fact, he chewed me out for waking him at one in the morning."

"It's not serious?" Jim shouted. "We have a cop, a captain no less, missing for hours. Forget the phone. I'll drag his ass out of bed personally. Maybe that will be serious enough for him."

Joel blessed whichever angel prompted him to round up the troops in the parking lot of McDonald's and not the PD. Right now, Jim would be storming through the halls, looking for the first superior he could lay hands on. They couldn't afford to lose anyone right now, least of all, Ellison. "So we go with what we've got, Jim. It's nearly daylight. I've left a skeleton crew on at Major Crime. I called in as many markers as I can to cover the shift. The rest of us will go back, on foot, and start canvassing."

"What about Daryl?" Blair asked.

"Not good," said a voice behind them. Rafe was carrying a tray of coffee cups. Brown had a stack of food containers. "Here. Eat. I went by about an hour ago. Unless we chain him to a pole, he's going to be down here, looking for his dad. I can hardly blame him, and we really can't stop him. He promised to wait, but I wouldn't count on it for very long."

"Shit," Jim said between bites. "Simon will kill us if anything happens to Daryl. What's going on with the brass, Joel? This is nuts."

"Don't start. Let's just say we don't all have the same priorities. I'm calling everyone I can, trying to generate some pressure." While his ragged troops gulped down a meager breakfast, Joel went through a litany of early morning phone calls, political wrangling and a host of other frustrations.

"So what you're telling us is we'll be on our own for a while," Jim said, wadding his napkin into a ball and cramming it into his coffee cup. "I don't believe this."

"Officially, all of you are off duty. I told the dispatchers to forget your names. They're mostly old-timers, and they'll cover for us." Taggart's cell interrupted his answer. "Taggart. Where? Damn. No sign of him? Right. Good, but tell them to stay away from it until we get there. No one touches it until I say so. We're on our way."

Jim was already moving. Blair looked at him with alarm. Jim was usually more circumspect with his sentinel hearing. Everyone else pretended not to notice while Joel repeated the message. "They found the car in Overlook Park. I'll go with Ellison and Sandburg. Keep in touch. Use my cell for now."

&&&&

Jim's Ford took the corner into the park entrance fast, just short of squealing the tires. "Damn. Look at all these vultures. Isn't that Bashaw, the mayor's aide?"

"One and the same," Blair said. The fates were against them today. Having Bashaw here was a serious stroke of bad luck. The guy seemed to hate Jim, and the feeling was mutual. "Don't throw him off the cliff, Jim. Don't even talk to him. Let Joel deal with him."

Jim pulled the truck into a spot away from the cluster of personnel and vehicles. "If I find out he's the one who kept us from getting more resources last night, all you'll hear is the splash." He stormed out of the truck. Besides Taggart, and the two of them, several patrol vehicles, and a forensics van and at least ten other people were nearer to the Cadillac.

"We waited, Detective, but you might want to take a look over here." The three men from Major Crime were motioned over to the railing by one of the forensics technicians, a young woman named Culver, of whom Serena had spoken highly. Jim's reputation being what it was, they didn't seem to have done much.

"Oh, God," breathed Blair. "No."

Jim said nothing, staring. Joel joined them in equally horrified silence. A corner of black, sodden fabric fluttered in the wind on the outcrop just below them. A few more inches and it was a long, unimpeded drop into the surf below. Even without the nameplate, any close associate would recognize the overcoat as belonging to Simon Banks.

"We took photos, and I've checked the railing. Plenty of prints, but they're a mess. That was all. Serena said not to touch anything until you'd had a look, detective."

Joel stepped between and whispered to Jim, "Tell me what you need." Blair's questioning look was answered with a tiny shrug. "Okay, so I notice things. You know."

"Uh, yeah, I guess," Blair said hesitantly. "Jim?"

Whatever reservations the sentinel may have had, he kept them to himself. "I need some quiet. Have Culver start with the outside of the car, samples from the tread, that sort of thing. I want to be the one to open the vehicle." Jim glared over his shoulder and added, "Find Bashaw something to do somewhere else. The man's a menace."

"You got it." Joel turned to the assembled group. "This is the responsibility of Major Crime," he said loudly. "Forensics! Start with the vehicle, but don't open it yet." He gestured to the nearest patrol unit. "Go down to the entrance. Set up a roadblock. If anyone from the press comes near, arrest them for impeding an investigation. Bashaw, could I speak with you privately, please? We're going to need to coordinate the cooperation from the other agencies."

Jim moved ten or fifteen feet away from the immediate area, eased over the relatively high railing and moved gingerly toward the coat. Blair held his breath as Jim slipped twice and caught himself. After a few more careful steps, he knelt, barely able to hold his position down on his knees.

"Damn, Jim, be careful."

"They're going to need a safety line before anyone else comes over here." Jim studied the rock surface closely, ghosting his fingertips over the rocks. Carefully he crept forward. The rock face dropped away sharply, the smooth gray surface treacherously slick. After less than a minute, he began to inch backwards. "I'm coming back over. Give me a hand." He reached up and Blair clasped his wrist firmly, adding some stability. Jim eased up and over.

"What do you think?" Blair asked anxiously.

"Anyone walking would have been on his butt ten feet from that coat." Jim gestured toward the rocky surface. "You probably can't see it, but there's a thin layer of moss or lichen all over, and its slick from the rain."

"Makes sense. It's got to be damp almost all of the time."

"Well, it's slicker than snot, and the reflection of the sunlight is different where my steps were. There aren't any other marks."

"What are you saying, Jim?"

"Simon didn't walk out there and drop that coat. It was thrown."

"It was pouring down rain last night. Why does he pitch his coat? More to the point, why is Simon up here in the first place."

"Exactly. Let's look at the car." Jim paused, and then added. "Uh, oh. We've got trouble. I knew it."

An intense conversation between Joel Taggart and the mayor's assistant was escalating. The words were too blurred for Blair to decode, but Jim apparently had no problems. He immediately headed in that direction.

"Stay out of it, Jim," Blair said quickly, trying to catch his partner. "Anything you have to add will only make things worse." He barely caught a muttered, "That son of bitch," before Jim flung himself forward.

Instinctively, Blair moved to intercept Jim. It was futile. Joel already had Carleton Bashaw bent over the back of the nearest vehicle, shaking him furiously, shouting for good measure. "You don't know a damn thing! Simon Banks would never – NEVER take his own life!" Blair leaned into his partner, desperately trying to keep Jim out of the fray, while others managed to disentangle Joel.

Bashaw stumbled to his feet. "You can't attack a member of the mayor's staff. I'll have you up on charges, Taggart. "

Taggart bristled right back. "Take your best shot. Just stay out of the police work, and keep your fantasies out of it. This is a good man you're speculating about."

"Just because he's one of the brothers in blue doesn't change the realities," Bashaw shot back. "It's obvious that suicide should at least be considered."

"You can make that judgment from just a glance? Without evidence?" Jim demanded, advancing ominously. This time Blair let him go, equally appalled at what was being said. "How convenient. The rest of us can just go home."

"Not even Ellison the great is going to clean this mess up," Bashaw scoffed, "Especially without Banks covering your ass every minute." Jim invaded Bashaw's personal space, his hands clenched at his side. The mayor's aide stepped away, clearly intimidated, finally showing a shred of prudence. He stepped back and fussed with his suit, trying to regain control of the situation. "Thank God we were circumspect last night. This will be scandal enough as it is. It's a PR disaster." The words were out of his mouth before he realized his miscalculation. Every member of the Cascade Police Department present turned as one.

"PR? You're worried about PR? Get out of here," Taggart hissed. "As of right now, if you breathe one more word, I won't be responsible for the consequences." Bashaw took a few hesitant steps and then fled.

"A suicide?" Blair said, aghast. "He thinks this is a suicide?"

"He's an idiot," Taggart said sharply. "It doesn't end there. He's opposed to committing additional resources looking for Simon, since the incident is so 'obvious'," Taggart said. "How dare that man? Right now the only thing that's 'obvious' is that we ought to lock HIM up somewhere."

"Can't we do that, sir?" one of the rookie patrolmen asked eagerly, nudging his partner. "Jaywalking? Littering? We'll go."

The earnest suggestion broke the grim mood. Joel shook his head, smiling sadly. "Tempting, son, but no. We'll just have to argue our point at higher levels. Besides, as irritating as that nitwit is, we have more important things to do. Everyone keep that in mind."

"You're going to have to do the political end, Joel. We'll handle things here," Jim said. "Get back to the station."

"I have to agree. I can't help with the forensics," Joel said. His round face was solemn, marred with a deep frown. "I shouldn't have lost my temper. It was stupid."

"Better you than Jim," Blair said, flashing a wry grin at his partner.

"Maybe," Joel said. "Get to work. I'll start making more calls. Get the other Captains involved and catch Warren the minute he steps off the plane. No way will they let this fly. We can at least hold up or temper any statements made to the public." He stopped dead, and turned back to his detectives. "Oh, no. Daryl. What if Bashaw makes some wild statement to the media? We can't let Daryl hear something like that without any warning."

"No, we can't." Without hesitation, Jim dug into his pocket and held out his keys. "Take the truck, Chief. Go talk to Daryl and I'll meet you at the station."

Blair started to protest, and Jim cut him off crisply. "We need Joel at Headquarters. There's no one else. You really want to send some stranger from public affairs to tell Daryl this? Or worse, hear some half-baked news bulletin?"

"Of course not, but…"

"I'll the careful," Jim said, his hand still outstretched. "Go. Joel agrees with me."

After a quick glance, Blair realized there was no point in arguing. He hurried to the truck, following Taggart's sedan out of the parking lot.

&&&&

"I don't believe it. No fucking way." Rafe's eyes widened at his partner's rare use of profanity. He couldn't hear the other side of the phone conversation, but clearly Henri wasn't happy. "What do you want us to do? Right. Got it."

"What happened?" Rafe asked.

Brown swallowed hard. "They found the car the Captain was using last night. It's at Overlook Park, and his overcoat is on the rocks leading out to the ocean. Some fool tried to say he jumped."

"Simon Banks a suicide? What a bunch of crap," Rafe said angrily. "Based on what?"

"Based on nothing, because it's impossible. Joel's convinced it was staged. Ellison's checking the car."

"Good. He'll find something." Rafe exchanged a knowing look with his partner. Ellison's talents were no secret to an insider. "What do we do?"

"Keep looking, and at least for awhile, we're not getting any help. Find something, anything."

Rafe kicked at the ground in frustration. "We've been down here for hours in the dark and found zip. If the Captain was patrolling down here, how did that damn car end up on the other side of town? I can't see him driving up there. Did somebody swipe the car? Force him to drive up there? The whole thing doesn't make sense."

"Look, Banks is no pushover. He had to have been out of the car. Even then, how does it go down?" Henri asked. "The car gets swiped, he calls in. Does he get mugged? Think about it, man. He is one big dude. I wouldn't want to try to take him, and I'm his size. You see a small army hiding in the bushes?"

"Even the small army would need to take him from behind. No one heard shots."

"Correction, partner, no one reported shots or a disturbance. Maybe the good citizens of Cascade didn't feel particularly civic last night."

"Good point, Rafe conceded. "Even with a weapon, out here on the sidewalks is a lousy place for an ambush."

"Then he was lured into a house, or an overgrown yard, maybe one of the alleys. Come on, my man. We've got things to do."

&&&&

Fischer slipped behind the computer at yet another coffee shop. After only a few hours of sleep, the espresso was essential. He sipped as he accessed his email. Cascade, with its droves of free internet sites, was so proud of its image as a progressive city. He could use a different location every day and go years before needing to repeat. For all the bluster of the Americans and their Homeland Security, this was so pathetically easy. Multiple email accounts, messages within messages. They spent millions for their war on terror, and yet he could operate with complete freedom.

First he checked on his drivers. Yes! All had arrived safely. His operation was the last step in an elaborate chain: arms and explosives purchased from brothers in the Balkans were smuggled overland into Germany, hidden in legitimate shipments of goods, which first went to Canada and then his own warehouses.

He smiled, deeply satisfied. Yes, there had been some problems, some information had leaked. The alert had been sounded in Seattle, and that was difficult. New supplies and personnel had taken additional precautions and precious time. It was almost amusing to see the authorities with their silly yellow and orange alerts, scuttling about Seattle, sticking their noses in all the wrong places.

Now the operation in Seattle would go forward. Even better, his own plans could go forward. Finally, he would be able to demonstrate what his brothers were unable to visualize.

He was loyal to the jihad. His skills and connections were highly valued. Others in the movement merely thought of him as a supplier, perhaps a bit too European. Despite his own frustrations, he had carefully kept his own plans in reserve, deferring to others.

Too European - how ironic. His beautiful Iranian mother had left her heritage, her religion, and doubtlessly her honor behind when she married her wealthy German banker. Such were the times in the last days of the Shah. Her family had fled with their Swiss accounts and little else. If they objected to his mother's behavior, they were too overwhelmed to restrain her.

And his father? When he had tired of the lovely Iranian beauty, he discarded her. As the only son, Reynard was considered a separate issue, clay to be educated, polished, molded into the perfect heir for the Fischer position and fortune. After his mother's dismissal, how he hated the father who demanded so much. What a blessed day when he had rediscovered his true faith. Following the counsel of others, rather than reject his upbringing, he nurtured it, used it as the perfect cover. He pulled his hand from the keyboard, considering what he should do next. His responsibilities were complete. The window could now open on his own plans.

Caution was important. He had lived caution ever since his own personal awakening. Now that things were in motion, he should kill the police officer, and dispose of him quietly. That was the practical, safe thing to do.

So why had he awakened this morning with other ideas? The police officer could be the hand of destiny, a great opportunity. If he allowed his mind the freedom, if he were willing to take the risk, there might be other alternatives. He must talk with Ibrahim immediately.

&&&&

Blair didn't get to the doorbell. Daryl bolted out the front door the minute his foot touched the front porch. "Where's my dad?"

"Come inside, Daryl," Blair said, trying to steer him back into the house.

"No. Tell me straight." Daryl's voice broke. "Tell me right here, right now." His young face looked haggard and tired. The poor kid must have paced all night after realizing his dad hadn't come home.

Blair hesitated, but maybe there was no sense in fighting it. "We found the car. Your dad wasn't there. That's all we know for sure. Let's go inside, man." He moved toward the front door, hoping the teenager would follow him.

Daryl promptly blocked his path. "What's the rest? Where was the car? Was there blood? Signs of a struggle?"

Damn, what else could he expect? Daryl had grown up surrounded by police work, and learned the fine art of questioning from a parent who just happened to be one of the best. Any delusions Blair had of breaking this slowly and gently weren't looking good. "Overlook Park. His coat was out on the rocks. That's all, Daryl, I swear. Just his coat. Nothing else."

Daryl's lip trembled. "My dad isn't dead. He's not."

"Who said anything about dead? Of course he's not dead," Blair said gently, taking Daryl's arm. "Listen to me. We'll find him. I just need to make sure you're okay while we figure this out. Let me take you over to your mom's."

"No. Mom's out of town." Daryl stood there, breathing heavily. "I'm not a little kid who needs social services. Take me up there, or I'll go by myself."

"Daryl, it's an investigation. You're a civilian. You know you can't."

Daryl snorted. "Give me a break. When did being a civilian ever stop you? Try a better one, Blair. Do I get in the truck, or shall I find my own ride? I can always start walking."

"Daryl, don't give me a hard time. Until we know what is really happening, you could be in danger, too. You can't just take off looking for your dad." Blair sighed. Daryl was his father's son. "Get your coat first, and bring your cell, but you're not going to Overlook. I'll take you up to the bullpen with me. You can call your mom and grandparents, and get the latest from Jim and Joel Taggart."

Daryl headed into the house, still talking. "Don't you even think of ditching me, or locking me up somewhere. I'm eighteen and I've got rights, you know." A moment later, he locked the door to the house and marched down the front walk, still full of himself. Blair knew it was just the bravado before the storm. The hardest part still had to be said. He wished he could have coaxed Daryl inside.

"Hold up a minute, before we go." He was hurrying to catch the young man, and nearly ran into Daryl when he turned back abruptly. Blair looked up into the young man's face. Daryl was no longer the slightly chubby youngster Blair had first seen the day the Sunrise Patriots had taken half the station hostage. He was tall, growing into his father's body, becoming a young man of promise. He'd be going off to college in the fall, into the adult world. "Look, I promise to treat you straight if you do the same. There's something you need to know. The way things look, there might be lots of ideas floated around, some that aren't true, just conjecture, you know? Don't take it seriously."

Daryl frowned, trying to understand. "Well, sure, no problem. Dad's always talking about how the media gets stuff messed up. Besides, what could they say?"

Blair swallowed. He could see the wheels turning, Daryl considering and answering his own question. "What? They saying he did something wrong? He's missing, not guilty."

"That's not what I meant…"

"No." Daryl took a step back, his face shifting from obstinacy to panic. "That's not it, is it? Is it?"

"Daryl, just don't take everything you might hear as gospel. That's all I'm saying."

"No. No, you're not telling me. What? The rocks? What are they saying?" There was a pained silence; Blair couldn't bring himself to say the words. "That he fell, or he jumped?" Daryl whispered harshly. Blair stood quietly as the voice rose in anger and the words tumbled out. It wasn't until the tears came that he wrapped his arms around his young friend, riding the waves of that storm as well.

&&&&

He must have dozed off. He felt steadier, but his head still hurt like hell. Unfortunately, his captors didn't seem inclined to supply an aspirin or an icepack.

They'd left his hands cuffed in front. That at least was an improvement. This whole thing made no sense. Why was he here? Were they keeping him for ransom? If that was the case, it was a damn spontaneous kidnapping plot, since it was pure coincidence that he'd walked into this nightmare. Okay, so it had been a little cowboy, poking around on a hunch, but he'd been hoping for guys ripping off old ladies. What had he stumbled into in that backyard? Nothing had been overtly criminal, just suspicious. If they were trying to cover their tracks, why not kill him outright instead of keep him prisoner?

Not that he intended to hang around long enough for these guys to change their minds. He needed medical attention, and he needed to escape. What did he know? He was in a room with a hardwood floor. He could feel the edges of the boards. From the way the sound carried, the room was small and closed up tight. He'd heard a bolt slide after they'd pushed him in here. How long ago?

He shoved the edge of the blindfold away so he could see. He was completely alone in an unfurnished room, bare of furniture. The floor was scuffed and stained from years of use. A thin blanket lay next to him, and there was a chipped pottery mug filled with water. There was no obvious sign of a camera or peephole, and he couldn't hear the sounds of anyone moving outside the door.

Faded floral wallpaper hung in ragged strips. There was one small, square window. Heavy nails were pounded through the wooden panes into the casement to keep it from opening. The windows were covered on the outside with some kind of sheeting, but dappled light came through the cracks. He could hear trees rustling. Faintly, he could hear footsteps below him. So, maybe two stories, an older home. The room he was in was probably an upstairs room, maybe even an attic.

He hurt everywhere. It was only a few feet to the window, and it took an eternity of agonizing effort to slide across the floor. Simon leaned against the wall, woozy with pain. Any thoughts of bashing through the glass would have to wait. He clearly wasn't up to escaping out a secured window, jumping from the window or scurrying over the roof. Damn, he couldn't even stand.

Okay, so what now? Come on, he needed to think like the detective he was. Figure out where he was, how to signal someone. Figure out what these guys were up to. He could just as easily be dead right now, but for some reason, he was being kept alive and hidden. He needed to find a weakness, something to exploit.

He started to creep toward the door, and after a few feet, lowered his head to the floor. He'd rest, just for a moment, just until it stopped hurting.

Unbidden, the darkness returned.

&&&&

Jim took a quick look at the evidence collected from the exterior of the car, then shooed the technicians away to work on the coat. Just preventing someone from pitching into the ocean from that slick rock would keep them busy. He looked at the tires first. The tread showed traces of black goo that didn't smell like oil. Jim picked a little bit of it out, rubbing it between his fingers. It didn't have the gritty texture of soil or mud. A sniff told him it was some kind of rotting vegetation, but he couldn't identify the source. Forensics would have to deal with that.

The car was unlocked. Jim closed his eyes for a moment, trying to wipe away all the anxiety and distractions that would interfere with his concentration. This process was a lot easier with Blair present, but in a pinch, he could do it himself. Slowly, Jim opened the driver's side door, concentrating first on smell.

The aroma of Simon's cigars hit him first. Simon would never smoke in his vehicle, but the tangy traces of tobacco were noticeable wherever the man visited, at least to a sentinel. A closed car didn't circulate the air quickly enough to dispel it. Jim brushed the obvious aside, looking for some other telltale scent. Many other people had access to a motor pool vehicle, so there was no guarantee anything he sensed would mean anything, but he had to try.

There. Something artificial, not sweet enough for a woman's perfume. A man's scent, probably an aftershave, not the brand Simon wore. At least there was a possibility that someone else had been in the car. Slipping on a pair of disposable gloves, Jim picked up an empty Starbucks cup and sniffed it. He recognized it as Simon's typical order when he wasn't drinking his own. No doubt there would be prints. No other wrappers or discards could be seen in the car.

He was about to examine the seats when he rocked back on his heels and grinned. He was certain now that Simon hadn't been the one to drive the Cadillac to this deserted parking lot in the middle of the night. The seat had been moved forward and was nearly upright. No way would a tall man like Simon Banks have driven with it in that position. His knees would have been stuffed up under the steering wheel.

He could even make a guess at the height of their unknown driver. Simon had sent Sandburg off with his personal car once to run an errand, and Blair had left the seat forward. Simon had bashed his knee getting into the car, and it had become a running joke between the two men. Whoever their mystery driver was, he or she was well under six foot. Judging from the hint of aftershave, they were looking for a man.

Jim stood up, backed away and called for one of the technicians. They could take some photos and finish with the rest of the car. He had the one piece of information that he really needed. Simon Banks hadn't come up here on his own, and quite possibly had never been here at all.

&&&&

Blair brought Daryl into the station using one of the less frequented entrances. Daryl had calmed down, but the young man was shaken and emotional. The more questions they could avoid, the better. Climbing the stairs and avoiding the elevator made sense, too. Blair went first, intending to weed out any interference on their way to Major Crime.

The bullpen was fairly deserted when they entered. Jim and Joel Taggart were visible through the windows of Simon's office, absorbed in conversation. Daryl rushed by, flinging the door open as he went. "Where's my dad?" he yelled. "Why aren't you guys doing something?"

Joel came around the desk and wrapped Daryl in a hug. "I'm glad you're here," Joel said. "It's going to be okay."

Greeted by a face he'd known since childhood, Daryl's composure broke. After a few ragged sobs, he pushed away. "Sorry. I know it's not your fault. I'm sorry. Please tell me what's going on."

"Sit down, now," Joel said gently, pulling Daryl toward one of the chairs. He sat next to him. Blair closed the door and stayed there, almost as full of questions as Daryl was. Jim leaned against the desk, watching quietly.

"Your dad didn't come in from patrol last night. He called he was coming in, and that was the last we heard from him," Joel said. "We found the car he was using and his coat, but that's all."

"Blair already told me that," Daryl said. What was he doing? Dad doesn't take patrol."

"He was covering for Major Crime personnel to give them a break." Jim shifted uncomfortably, knowing that Joel was deliberately keeping them out of it. "I'm sure you know how shorthanded we are. Half the force is in Seattle, running around for Homeland Security."

Daryl nodded. "All dad ever talks about is how screwed up the schedule is and how beat everyone is. It really ticks him off. The message he left just said he was working late and to order a pizza. He said he'd be home before midnight." Daryl swallowed hard, almost losing his composure again. "He's been working a lot lately."

Joel nodded in agreement. "Well, then you understand why he was out there. There was no indication of any trouble. We just don't know where he is, or what happened."

"He didn't kill himself, and he didn't do anything wrong," Daryl said angrily. "I want to pound whoever said it."

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," Joel said. "It was idle talk. We wanted Blair to tell you, so you'd be prepared. We didn't want you to hear something silly like that without warning."

"You don't believe it, do you?" Daryl asked, the question somewhere between a question and a challenge.

"Of course we don't. Nobody who knows your dad believes it either. You don't need to worry about it." Joel paused. He grasped Daryl's arm, willing him to believe him. Daryl gave a small nod. "Good. We're going to straighten this out and find your dad, but that means we have work to do. We need to take you somewhere safe, Daryl, just in case." He cast a quick glance at Blair. "Actually, I'm surprised that you're here. We kind of thought you could stay with your mom."

Daryl looked down, a stubborn frown on his face. "Mom's on a business trip until the end of the week, and I'm not some baby who needs a keeper. I want to go to the crime scene."

"Well, that's out of the question, and you know it." Daryl refused to make eye contact, and Joel finally nudged his foot with his own. "You look at me, young man. If you're not a child, then don't act like one."

Daryl sighed as only a disgruntled teenage could. "Okaaay, all ready. But you can't expect me to toddle off somewhere and just disappear. That is just not going to happen."

"Then we'll compromise with something appropriate, but I need your word that you won't take off and do something stupid."

"And I suppose Overlook Park would qualify as something stupid?" Daryl said bitterly.

Taggert crossed his arms and glared severely at Daryl. "Right now, your dad would be saying something along the lines of, 'Don't sass me, young man.' Want to hear it out of my mouth, too?" Daryl shook his head. "Overlook would definitely qualify as stupid. We've closed the crime scene, but there are plenty of bystanders by now. You don't want to get messed up in that. Besides, forensics is bringing the car and all the other evidence down here. There's nothing to see."

The intercom interrupted them. "Captain Taggart, Chief Warren called," Rhonda said. "He on his way from the airport and wants you in his office immediately."

"Thank you, Rhonda," Joel said. "I've got to go, so we need to do this fast. How about your grandparents?"

"I'm not going there either, unless you want to arrest me, and you can't. I haven't done anything wrong." Daryl folded his arms and sat back in his chair. "What's it going to be?"

Joel stood up and looked at Daryl with complete impatience. "We don't have time for this argument. For the moment you can stay here, but don't test me, young man. If you even stick a toe outside this office without an escort, I will throw you in a holding cell. Your dad won't even bat an eyelash when he finds out. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"Daryylll," Joel said reproachfully.

Daryl held up both hands. "Okay, okay. I promise. I'll stay here and be a good little boy."

"See that you do, son. I'll come down on you like the wrath of God. I'm off to see Warren and the mayor."

Jim motioned his head toward the door. "Daryl, Sandburg and I need a minute. We'll go get you something to eat and be right back." They slipped out of the office, shutting the door behind them. "That ought to last about ten minutes," Jim said softly.

"Can you blame him?" Blair asked sharply.

"No, but that's beside the point." They retreated to Jim's desk. For a moment they watched Daryl wander around their captain's office. "How's he doing?" Jim asked.

"You saw," Blair said. "He's old enough to know how he should react and young enough not to. If it was Naomi, I wouldn't be doing any better. He'll do his best. How are we doing for evidence?"

"Not much. For what it's worth, I'm certain Simon didn't drive that car up there. The seat was set all wrong. His knees would have been in his ears. There was another scent in the car."

"Anything we can use?" Blair asked.

"Too generic, I'm afraid. The car was wiped down on the door handles and the interior."

"Does it look professional?"

Jim shook his head. "I doubt it. It's a pretty basic mistake to move the seat and leave it in the wrong place. The whole thing just doesn't make sense."

"Maybe we're tired and we're missing something."

"Ya think? Four hours of sleep in the last thirty-six shouldn't be a problem," Jim snapped. Blair's eyes flashed. "Sorry. I am tired, but that's no excuse. Serena made me promise I wouldn't come down to forensics –". He checked his watch quickly. "For another forty-three minutes. Correction. Forty-two minutes. How about some coffee?"

"If I drink another coffee on an empty stomach, my stomach's taking a runner. Look, let's go grab some real food to eat. It will keep Daryl busy, and we can regroup before we fall over."

Fifteen minutes later, Jim was wolfing down a scrambled egg sandwich, bacon and extra hash browns. Blair had chosen fruit and an English muffin, the only menu item he considered moderately healthy. Daryl was toying with a stack of pancakes. "Do you think my dad was even up there? At Overlook, I mean," he asked."

Jim took a swallow of juice. "We should wait for the evidence, but I'm thinking probably not." He checked his watch. "Ten more minutes. Eat your food while you have the chance."

Daryl started on a bite and then put his fork down. "Wouldn't someone see him? He must be somewhere, hurt or something? We should be looking for him, not sitting here eating."

Jim grabbed his arm as he started to get up. "Don't you think it might be a good idea to have some idea where to start? Brown and Rafe are already down in the neighborhood. Taggart isn't going to rest until he gets some action from the higher ups. Sometimes acting without a plan is counterproductive. Now like I said, a good soldier never misses a chance to eat or sleep." He noticed Blair's raised eyebrow, and remembered his cue. "Besides, if you're going to help us, we need you sharp."

Daryl said nothing for a moment, then started to shovel in pancakes at record speed.

&&&&

Chief Warren drummed his fingers on the table and shook his head. His captains could advise, but this was his decision. He might as well go ahead and make it. "I think we're all in agreement that this couldn't have happened at a worse time. The evidence may be fragmentary, but I don't buy an accident, and I definitely don't buy a suicide. It's unimaginable that Simon Banks would do such a thing. I also agree the coat was staged to point us in that direction. The fact that there was some attempt to mislead tells me to start looking, either for a hostage, an injured man, or, God forbid, a body. We're committing every available resource to the search." Everyone in the room shifted. "I say that knowing we HAVE no available resources. Taggart, who's on this?"

"Right now, I have one team canvassing the neighborhood of the last report," Joel said. "Ellison and Sandburg should be in forensics right about now. There didn't look like much to go on, so I can't hold out a lot of hope."

"We can't invent what isn't there," Warren sighed. "Taggart, I want you to concentrate on the evidence collection and the case itself. Everyone else, I want Taggart to have access to one team from every department, and I mean every department, on every shift, from now until we find Simon Banks. Before anyone says something, I know how thin everyone is, and every damn one of you thinks he's got special circumstances I don't know about. I don't want to hear it. Don't even think about sending your losers and hoping I won't notice. Do whatever it takes; overtime, cancel vacations, whatever. Bring meals in. Set up cots. You've got thirty minutes to come back here with duty rosters. Dismissed. Taggart, stay."

The other captains filed out of the room, talking amongst themselves, until only Joel and Warren remained in the room. "You've asked the impossible, sir," Joel said quietly. "Simon was out there because there's no one left. Can't we get some of our own people back? Declare a police emergency?"

"My next stop is the mayor. I'll do my damn best, which is all I can ask of them. Supposedly, they had new leads on a 'credible threat' in the next twenty-four hours."

"We don't have a threat, we have a reality," Joel said grimly.

"Good point. We need Ellison to give us a lead. If not, you'll need to be searching likely dump sites. I hate to say that, but it is true."

"Understood, sir. Thirty minutes." Joel didn't bother with his cell phone or stopping by Major Crimes. He headed directly to Forensics.

&&&&

Serena Chang looked up from her microscope, to the clock, and then scowled at her visitors. "Damn you, Ellison. I told you an hour. Go away."

"It's been an hour, on my watch, anyway."

She rolled her eyes as Jim strode in anyway. Blair, trailing behind, peeked around the broad shoulders and mouthed, "Sorry." Serena gave him a tiny smile in return. She had actually expected them sooner. It was a running joke between the two of them at Jim's expense. Her eyes clouded with concern as the last member of the trio filed into the lab.

Blair was quick to pick up on her unspoken thoughts. "You know Daryl, don't you Serena? He's - uh – staying with Major Crime."

"Right," she said, after a moment of hesitation. Managing family members during an investigation was always a little tricky. She looked toward Jim, hoping for some kind of a cue. Jim gave her a slight nod. He and Sandburg hadn't had quite enough time to work out the details. They were walking a fine line between following correct procedure and keeping Daryl engaged enough to forestall outright rebellion.

"We haven't pulled any prints that were useful. We've had no hits on any of the data bases, but it's early."

"Partials?" Jim asked.

"Lots. If you get a suspect, we can probably confirm they were in the car. Our chances of giving you a suspect isn't so good."

"There's got to be something, Serena."

"They swept that parking area near the coat. They came up with some change and a receipt that seems to match the coffee cup in the car. It was time stamped at about 6:30 last night. It's speculation, but I'd guess it came out of the pocket of his coat. I'm not sure what that means, if anything."

"Nothing else?" Blair asked.

Serena shook her head sadly. "I know you need something quickly, and I can't give it to you. There is residue on the car we're still working on. It's sticky, like the car was parked under a tree." She gestured helplessly with her hands. "There's an outside chance we can find something to work with. There is some dark black goo ground into the tire treads."

"I noticed that," Jim said. "It wasn't oil."

Serena raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "It seems to be vegetation of some kind. It's a long shot, but we're trying to put a name to it. We're grasping at straws. I'm afraid that's it so far."

"What about the coat?" Jim asked, surprised Serena hadn't discussed that crucial piece of evidence already.

"We're still analyzing samples, but there weren't many fibers on what we recovered." She fiddled with her notes for a moment. "Maybe I should just summarize my stuff and email them to you."

"Serena, we need..." Jim stopped in mid-sentence when Blair's thumb dug under his last rib. His partner's face was a study in neutrality, but the thumb kept digging. Serena was studying the floor tiles with sudden interest.

"Maybe Daryl could identify the coat," Blair suggested.

"It's right over here," Serena said, sounding a little more secure. "Does this look like your Dad's, Daryl?" She gestured toward one of her work areas. "The pockets were empty."

Daryl looked closely. "It's big enough. It looks like the one he uses for work most days." He swallowed hard, trying to maintain his composure. "Did it have a label or anything? Dad gets most of his suits and stuff from that men's store, the one downtown. They put some kind of special label in it."

"Kaufman's," Jim said. "Good thinking, Daryl."

"It does have a Kaufman's label. Maybe you guys can follow up on that." The silence that followed was palpable. Serena was avoiding something, and not very skillfully. Besides that, Sandburg was firmly tromping on his instep. Finally it dawned on Jim. Serena wouldn't hold out on them. She just didn't want to say it in front of Daryl.

"You guys knock it off!"

Daryl's angry voice snapped Jim out of his reverie. He'd been so intent on the evidence, he'd been a half second too slow. Daryl was facing off with Blair. "You gave me your word! You promised me you'd be straight with me. Those were your exact words. Now you're acting like you just took a four year old into an X-rated movie by mistake!"

"Daryl, you're here, aren't you?" Blair said. "This is a lead we can follow up…"

Daryl wasn't buying it. "Bullshit. You don't care where dad buys his clothes." He glared at Serena. "What's on the coat you don't want to tell me?" Serena gave Jim a stricken look, but said nothing. "What's on the coat?" Daryl shouted

"That's enough," Jim said, forcing himself between Serena and Daryl.

"WHAT'S ON IT?"

Eye to eye with Detective Ellison was not the location most people sought out. Defying the usual odds, Daryl closed the gap between them even more. The decibel level went down, but his voice quivered with rage.

"What. Is. On. The. Coat. Tell me or I'm out of here, and you're not going to stop me."

"There are blood stains on the coat," Serena said quietly. "Just don't get upset before you let me finish. It's nothing like a bullet or a knife wound." She turned the coat over gently.

"There's no blood on there," Daryl said.

"You can't see it. The residue is very faint. Let me show you. Turn around, Blair." Gesturing across his back, she continued to explain. "There were just spatters, along the collar particularly. It's hard to tell because of all the rain. There was another smear along the left sleeve, near the wrist." She demonstrated. "This is very hypothetical, but if someone were struck on the head, they might reach back behind their head, like this."

Daryl bit his lip and said nothing.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Daryl? That means he was moving after he was struck. It's not a bullet hole or a stab wound."

"Okay. Okay." Daryl put both hands in front of him, steadying himself on the lab counter. He was breathing in irregular pants, clearly shaken. He looked up at Jim. "I can't do this, can I? It's too much." He was fighting back tears again. "Joel tried to tell me."

"That's why you're not supposed to work on an investigation that you're too close to," Jim said quietly. "If you were the one missing, your dad might be helping, but he wouldn't be the lead investigator. It would be hard, but he'd step back and understand why."

Daryl nodded. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Maybe Blair can go back up to my dad's office with me while you talk to Serena. Would that be okay?"

Jim squeezed his shoulder firmly. "I think that's a great idea. I'll be up in a minute." He waited as Blair herded the shell-shocked young man from the room.

&&&&

Painfully, Simon rolled to his back. He stared at the ceiling, rubbed at his cheek. Fine grit from the floor rasped at his cheek. Damn, how long had he been out? He gingerly balanced on one elbow and sat up, pulling one knee up to balance himself. Whoa, no cuffs. When had that happened? He must have been out of it for awhile.

He scanned the empty room again. Two bottles of water, an apple and three packaged granola bars were dumped on a paper towel by the door. He crawled toward the door, opened and downed three gulps of water, followed by half of a bar.

He was ready to cram in the rest of the bar, and caught himself. They hadn't killed him yet, and apparently, didn't think him capable of mounting much of a threat. Best they continue to believe that. He took another swallow of water, and carefully placed the bottle on its side, letting the water drain out. He ate another bite of the bar, but crumbled the rest of it and added it into the mess. Let them think he couldn't even feed himself.

He pressed an ear against the door. The most he could distinguish were muffled men's voices. No one seemed close, at least one floor below. As long as he paid attention, he could do a little staging before anyone opened the door and looked in.

He checked the door thoroughly. It was an old door, but bolted somehow on the outside. It seemed solid, but if he hit it with a lot of momentum, something might give way. Not the epitome of stealth. The window looked the same way. Brute force might get him out, but everyone nearby would know something was up.

He worked his way carefully around the room. Somewhere in this barren room, there had to be something he could use to his advantage.

&&&&

Joel Taggart looked pensively through the doorway of the situation room. Daryl hadn't noticed him yet; his head was slumped down over crossed arms on the tabletop. Their makeshift command center was cluttered with papers, along with two laptops. Citywide maps were stapled to the walls, tracking the course of the search for Simon Banks. They put Daryl to work along with two other officers: marking search sectors, tracking duty rosters, cross-referencing information. The boy was smart. He caught on to the big picture, and the work kept him engaged.

The first six hours had been upbeat. The knowledge that the department had finally thrown resources into the fray produced a flush of optimism. Now, as the hours ground on, reality was setting in. They were generating precious few leads. A new shift of personnel was due to rotate in, and Taggart was at a loss to deploy them in any rational way. He dreaded explaining to Daryl that it was time for him to go home.

He slipped into a chair next to the young man. Daryl sat up, his face blank, but Joel could see the trace of tears across his cheeks. "They can't find him, can they?" Daryl said quietly.

Joel gently massaged the teen's neck and shoulders. "We haven't given up. You know that. We'll keep going house to house. There will be different people home in the evening. Something will break." Daryl's only answer was a nod. "You're exhausted, Daryl. You waited up all night. You need to call it a day. You know we'll keep in touch. Did you call your mom?"

"Yeah. I told her not to come home, that she couldn't do anything anyway." A tear streaked down his cheek. "I – I think I just want to go home. I'm eighteen. I don't need a babysitter."

"No, but you're the family of a missing person. We'd encourage anyone not to be alone."

"I know that, and I also know you guys have broken all kinds of rules letting me stay down here. I'm too tired to think anymore, and I know you need to kick me out."

"Daryl…you know we're not doing anything of the kind. I'm sent Ellison and Sandburg home, too, and they don't like it one bit either. I just can't let emotions outweigh common sense. You're at the end of your rope."

Daryl wiped at his cheek. "What a wimp, sitting in here bawling like a baby."

"Your dad will be proud of how you've conducted yourself today, son. Showing some emotion isn't something to be ashamed of. He'd be the first one to tell you that."

Daryl sniffed. "I know you're right, and besides, if I pitch a fit, you can't concentrate on finding my dad." He fiddled with some papers in front of him. "I know you're worried about me, but please just let me go home. I can warm up some soup or order a pizza. I promise I won't do anything stupid."

Joel studied Daryl's expression. Simon Banks had often joked that Daryl could lay down a diversion with the best, but he wasn't given to out and out lying. The kid had been on his best behavior since he'd arrived at the station. Maybe a little trust was appropriate. "I have to go meet with Warren right now, and it might take awhile. I want you to go crash in your dad's office for a few minutes, and I'll get one of the patrols to run you home. I want you to call my cell when you get there. Are we clear on that?"

"Clear. I'll just straighten up some of this stuff before I go."

Joel stood up and gave Daryl's shoulder one last squeeze. "Don't be afraid to call me if you need anything. If something breaks, I'll keep you posted."

Daryl gave a half-hearted smile and gave him a wave as he left. He neatly organized notes and papers for nearly a minute before he sank into the nearest chair. "He can't be dead," he whispered. "He can't be dead." He rubbed angrily at one cheek, willing away the tears that were so close. Joel was like family, but none of his dad's detectives were going to see him cry. Resolutely, he marched into the bullpen to wait for his ride.

&&&&

Fischer's hands shook with anticipation rather than fear, as he fumbled with the last lock. He kept the keys, although Ibrahim had been here many times in his stead. Together they had assembled the equipment, tested it, perfected it. Still, he needed to see it one last time, to be sure.

He'd never mounted a direct attack on his own. Moving supplies and personnel for others was routine, practically child's play. This was far more daring. Not 9-11, to be sure, but if this worked as envisioned, it could be adapted and repeated with other communities with minimal investment. He, Reynard Fischer, would be responsible for launching another phase in the jihad. There had been buses in London, trains in Spain, but this would be on American soil. His brothers would finally see what he had tried desperately to explain to them for years now.

Success did not lie with fools like Joseph! No, the way of the future was to recruit America's own to further the cause. They needed angry young men, individuals not restricted by ignorance of language and custom. Ibrahim was a perfect example. French-born, French-educated, he'd overcome every obstacle to gain a University education in engineering, only to have his native land refuse to accept him. In rejection and bitterness, he had turned to jihad. Imagine the fear and paranoia they could sow in the United States if attacks came from those raised in their own neighborhoods, rather than those hailing from the deserts of North Africa or West Asia. With a little encouragement, the Americans would tear themselves apart.

His hands were damp inside the heavy leather gloves, another basic precaution they always took. He studied the first item, a backpack. He lifted the false panel, admiring the charges which Ibrahim had carefully prepared. The man was a genius in his own right. They had five of these completed, the targets selected, everything in place. He smiled at his own private joke. Death would come to Cascade in pink Barbie backpacks. How fitting. This is what should happen to a culture that paraded its women immodest and uncovered.

He had not shared his plans in advance. Had he done so, he would have been overruled. Only Ibrahim shared his vision. Here in his innermost sanctum, his certainty returned. He was being too timid, too careful, too concerned about detection. Even though his other men had been kept in Seattle, he would use Joseph. The foolish young man longed for martyrdom, and his wish would be fulfilled. Such a shame he wouldn't know in advance. The rest could be handled by Ibrahim and himself.

And their prisoner? The man was too weak to be a problem, which gave him new options. He and Ibrahim had talked for hours, considering the fate of the police captain. If they put their plans in motion, this Banks could be used for ultimate shock value. After years of living a double life, hadn't he learned to turn obstacles into opportunities? Fortune favored the bold. Satisfied that all was ready and his mind at ease, Fisher locked the warehouse carefully and slipped away.

&&&&

The light changed from yellow to red and Jim slammed on the brakes. 'Damn Sunday drivers. Get a move on, you idiots!'

'Jim, cut it out. You've been snarling ever since Joel kicked us out of the bullpen. You're sending me round the bend."

"I'm not yelling at you, Chief," Jim snapped.

"Yelling around me isn't much better. Either you knock it off, or I start burning sage. You can sneeze yourself into oblivion."

"And I'm the one with the attitude?" Traffic started to move. "Finally," Jim snorted, jamming the truck through the gears. He stayed right on the bumper of the Kia in front of them.

"Shit, Jim. Why not drive right over the guy?"

"Sandburg, get off my case!" Jim yelled. He glanced sideways fast enough to watch Blair draw in a breath and hold it, staring straight ahead. "Oh, crap. I didn't mean that. It's just…"

"It's just Simon. I know that. You know that."

Jim pulled abruptly to the curb. "What are we doing going home? We didn't find a damn thing, not a trace. No witness, no suspicious activity. It's like he fell off the face of the earth."

The seconds ticked away in silence. "What do you want to do, Jim? If you want to hit the street again, I'm there."

Jim lowered his head until it rested on the steering wheel. "I don't need a mirror to know how bad we look. We could fall over critical evidence and not even know it." He finally turned his head enough to look at his partner. "Okay, no more ranting. We go home, get some sleep. It just makes me feel like shit, like I'm betraying him."

"We're not giving up, man. We're regrouping."

"I want to believe that." Jim drove the rest of the route in silence. As they rode the elevator to the third floor, Jim felt fatigue nearly overwhelm him. The door to the loft seemed miles away.

"You want the first shower, Chief?" Jim asked, hanging his coat on the hooks and tossing his keys into the basket.

"I'd have to be awake." Blair continued his slow shuffle toward his room. "Forget food. Forget hygiene. I'm sleeping."

Jim followed his progress with sound; the soft crush of linens on the futon, one shoe hitting the floor, then the second, finally a solid thwap as Blair hit the pillow. Jim sighed. He couldn't stand to hit the bed with the smell of his day – correction – days still on him, no matter how tired he was. He trooped up the stairs for clean boxers and a t-shirt. Back in the bathroom, he turned the shower to hot and stood motionless, the spray pounding down on the top of his head. He rubbed a little shampoo into his hair, gave it a quick scrub and called it good.

He toweled off quickly and pulled on his boxers. Sandburg was asleep, but restless. At least he'd dropped off quickly. Neither one of them would be worth much without some rest to clear their thoughts. He briefly considered taking the time for a beer, and overruled himself.

He stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He willed himself not to dwell on the frustration of the search, or his fears for Simon. Rest, he told himself. Rest to continue the hunt.

&&&&

Chief Warren leaned his arms on his desk. The inner office was empty except for the two of them. "We don't have a thing, do we, Taggart?"

"No, sir. Ellison's convinced Simon wasn't in the car. Someone's trying to throw us off, but we don't know why."

"You still getting the manpower you need?" Warren asked.

"Everyone from forensics to patrol is busting their butts. I'm running out of ideas on how to use them. I finally sent the Major Crime guys home."

"I'll bet that wasn't pretty."

"I thought Ellison was going to take a swing at me. I can't say I blame him."

"It wouldn't have been responsible to keep them out there. Even the best need a break." Warren shrugged. "I have to admit, it didn't look promising from the beginning. It's unfair, but I was hoping Ellison and Sandburg would pull out a miracle. You've talked to the family, I assume."

Taggart nodded. "His ex, his parents. Daryl was here most of the day."

"Little Daryl Banks." Warren shook his head. "I can remember Simon the day Daryl was born, handing out cigars, grinning from ear to ear. How old is the boy?"

"Senior in high school. He's taking it hard, but holding it together. It may have been the wrong decision, but he wanted to go home. I sent him in a patrol car. I took him at his word that he'd stay put."

"Tough call. Tell dispatch to send a car by in a few hours and check on him."

"I agree. Do you have any suggestions, sir? Another angle that I'm missing?" He gestured helplessly. "Simon – we just can't…"

The outer office suddenly burst into an uproar. "For pity's sake, what now?" Warren said, heading for the door. Taggart was right behind him. In the outer office, the two men joined the crowd clustered around the television kept for watching tape, now tuned to CNN.

"…this breaking story. The city of Seattle has been ripped by a series of explosions …"

&&&&

Reynard and Ibrahim sat quietly, watching the images flicker across the screen. Reynard would have opened champagne to celebrate, but Ibrahim was an observant Muslim and wouldn't appreciate the gesture.

"When will the announcement come?" Ibrahim asked.

Reynard checked his watch. "Another hour, maybe two. Every major network will be running the transcript claiming responsibility." He smiled. "So much for their alerts. It is a grand victory, my friend."

"And our own plans? You visited our warehouse. We need to make a decision. Have you changed your mind?"

The two men looked steadily at each other, appreciating the moment. Ibrahim – the son of immigrant day laborer, a brilliant youngster growing up on the fringes of French society. Reynard – the child of privilege who hated the father and the culture which had nurtured him. How odd they would journey together to the same fateful moment.

"We have seen the results in Europe, in your own homeland. How long did the fires burn in France? We need angry young men," Reynard said. "Many, many angry young men, operating in a familiar environment. Fighters like Joseph are worthless. Well intentioned, but worthless."

Ibrahim rolled his eyes in a very American gesture. "No one would credit Joseph with his ability to blend in. Even with an Americanized name, he might as well wear a sign around his neck."

"This is the element our brothers do not understand, so we must show them. We must create a climate which provokes our still peaceful American brothers to fight for us, for jihad. We shall fan the spark of resentment into a flame. We shall provide the spark and the encouragement. Yes, let us begin."

"And the police captain?"

"Ideally, videotape him confessing to all sorts crimes against the Muslims here in Cascade. In his condition, we can hope he may cooperate. I suspect, Ibrahim, that he may not."

Ibrahim raised an eyebrow. "He did not strike me as a coward, but he has a son, you say? That could prove interesting, my friend. Perhaps, I should visit the man's home and bring the boy here. What won't a man do for his son?"

"As you say." Fischer nodded his agreement. "Be careful."

"Always. Either way, we will make our tape. Then…"

"Then, we kill him. How do you feel about beheadings?" They both laughed.

&&&&

Jim jerked and opened his eyes wide. Sirens were wailing, from all over the city from the sound of it. He bolted out of bed and down the stairs. "Sandburg! Chief, wake up! Something's happening."

Blair nearly smacked the door jamb coming out of his room. "What?"

"Call the station. I can hear sirens for miles." Jim brushed some discarded newspapers to the floor, searching for the remote. He fumbled for a local channel, listening to Sandburg making the call in the background.

"Jim!" He looked quickly over his shoulder.

Blair's eyes were wide. "CNN. Go to CNN. Yeah, we'll be there." Still carrying the phone, he stood beside Jim, watching the images in horror. "Oh, God," he whispered. "They were right, after all. Seattle. We're on alert." He stared at Jim, whose eyes hadn't left the screen. "Jim, we need to dress. We need to go."

"Right." Jim took the stairs two at a time. He tore into his dresser, searching for something to wear. Abruptly, he stopped, hanging on to the furniture to stay upright. Whatever else happened today, the hunt for Simon Banks, one of his oldest friends, was effectively over.

&&&&

Daryl Banks huddled into the cushions of the couch, horrified by what he was watching and unable to turn away. Smoke boiled across the screen. Shells of vehicles littered the road. Police officers, firemen, and ordinary citizens were carrying the wounded away. Men like his father, answering the call. So many people must be hurt or dead.

He felt the tears coming, and didn't care. Sob after sob shook his body. He grabbed a pillow, rocking back and forth. "Dad, where are you?" he wailed. "Why aren't you here? Where are you?"

The phone was ringing and he ignored it, trapped in his own personal agony.

&&&&

The station was in chaos. Mitch Powell met them at the door, out of uniform but definitely on duty. Jim recognized the fat white binder spread in front of the older man. They'd jokingly named it "the disaster book". Every city agency, in fact, every office, was supposed to have a copy. They were usually on shelves gathering dust, but not today.

Mitch was clearly directing traffic, consulting the plan when necessary. "Where?" Jim asked brusquely.

"Major Crime, what team are you?" Powell muttered, flipping pages.

"Team four."

"Four. Four. Okay, got it. He handed the two men bright orange badges. You're in command, sector A-1. At the moment, Cascade General is your main responsibility. They're assembling emergency medical teams to bus down to Seattle. Expedite traffic."

"Anything else?"

"Officially, other than emergency personnel, civilians are supposed to go home and stay there. Check points are going up, but that's not your problem. They're handing out extra gear in the garage. Stop before you go. Anything could happen before you have a chance to come back in."

"Any other news?" Jim asked.

"Ask CNN. I'm too busy to know, but so far no strikes outside of Seattle. The governor's calling up the National Guard and sending them in, at least the ones that aren't already in combat overseas. Crap, half a world away when we need them right here at home." He waved Jim aside, speaking to the next in line.

"I'll bring the truck down," Jim said grimly to Blair. "You get in the gear line."

It wasn't much better in the garage, but things seemed to be moving. Every available vehicle was hitting the street to provide extra security. Jim headed for the gas pumps. Who knew when they'd get another chance to fill up? He glanced at his partner, surrounded by other officers waiting their turn for gear. Not much chatter for a bunch of cops.

He was just finishing when Blair trooped over with an armful. "We need to make another trip. This is mostly water, rations and medical stuff."

Jim did as he was told. "Right there, Detective," a voice called out. "That box to your left."

Jim checked quickly. Flares, ammunition, radios and two rifles caught his eye. Body armor was at the bottom. "Anybody need a ride?" he called out. "We're headed to Cascade General; someone can ride in the back of the truck. We leave in five." A couple hands went up, and those groups moved to the head of the line.

Jim hoisted the box, dreading what lay ahead.

&&&&

Serena Chang checked her equipment one last time. She and three other Cascade forensics technicians were heading for Seattle. Her personal bag sat by the door, basically a few outfits grabbed on the run and her toothbrush. She knew what awaited her – days of trying to make identifications of the dead. It would be gruesome work, and she dreaded it. It was easier to think of the families and how important it was to get closure, to say goodbye.

What about their own family, here in Cascade? Simon Banks was still missing. Serena gathered the copies of all the new information they'd gathered. No way was she leaving this to one of her junior staff. This was going straight up to Captain Taggart, from her hand to his. It was the least she could do.

"Ms. Chang, are you ready to go?"

Serena looked up at the young cop standing in the doorway. "I need these two boxes taken down. Can you handle them?"

"Yes, ma'am. Aren't you coming?"

"Tell me where you're parked and I'll meet you. I need to deliver some information to Captain Taggart before I leave."

The young man nodded. "The vans are parked on the west side. Please hurry, ma'am."

Serena nodded, and slung her duffle over her shoulder. No matter what they did tonight, it would be too little and too late.

&&&&

Chief Warren looked out over the packed room, waiting for the briefing to start. He hated to admit it, but his wife had been right. He should have taken retirement in July. He'd hoped this would never happen on his watch. Shoving that thought aside, he stepped to the microphone.

"Thanks for getting down here, everyone. I know you're all tired, and I want to get you back out to your duties as soon as possible."

"Here's what we know so far. Between four thirty and five this evening, six explosions were detonated in Seattle. The targets included the Justice Center, a shopping mall, an outgoing ferry, a major power substation. They also hit the pipeline for the water treatment facility and the Microsoft campus in Bellevue. They all appear to have been car bombs. I'm sure all of you have heard by now that a branch of al-Qaida has claimed responsibility. It's been six hours, and so far there have been no further attacks. The Feds are running the investigation, but I don't have any additional information. The Guard's been called out, and they're trying to shut down all non-essential traffic. SeaTac is closed, and so are the ferries."

"The ferry and the mall are the high casualty counts. We've got conflicting information about the status of power and water in the city. It's quite possible that by morning, we'll be involved in evacuating the city, or at a minimum, getting emergency supplies in. Until we hear more, or something, God forbid, happens in Cascade, we'll hold the positions we have now. Questions?"

"What about a curfew?"

Warren threw a quick glance at the mayor. "Not at this time." He kept his face blank while a murmur of dissatisfaction rippled through the room. He'd gone to the mat, arguing for a curfew for at least the night-time hours, and had been overruled. Now wasn't the time or place to air their disagreements in public, even if the mayor was a jackass and in total denial. What could you expect from a man who surrounded himself with twits who knew more about prepping for a TV interview than public safety? "We'll be issuing a statement asking businesses to observe a voluntary closure for tomorrow at least. Schools will definitely be closed. The personnel manning the checkpoints should try to discourage travel if at all possible." He took a deep breath. "If we do have an incident, obviously the ground rules will change immediately. For right now, we need to keep a high profile, be vigilant and try to keep everyone calm. The Emergency Management folks need to brief us, so I'm turning it over to them."

Warren returned to his seat. He couldn't look at Joel Taggart. The search for one of their own had to be abandoned.

&&&&

"You will read the statement."

"No." Simon had a few more choice comments to add, but none of the words made it out of his mouth. Talking took too much energy.

The man knelt to look him in the eye. "This is our third conversation. Do you think it will stop? How much pain do you wish, my friend?"

"You're no one's friend," Simon growled.

His captor smiled. "I will return in another hour. We will discuss your other hand. Perhaps you will be in a more conversational mood. Just a few words, and then it will be over."

Simon couldn't stop the flinch. They had started breaking fingers the second time. His left hand was now mangled and useless. "An hour won't make any difference, you bastard, whoever you are."

"Such bravado. A cowboy. How very American." The man moved towards the door and gave one last look over his shoulder. "My associate will be joining us. As we speak, he is calling at your home. No doubt your son will find comfort in his visit. Perhaps that will change your attitude."

Simon lunged and fell far short as the door slammed and locked. Not Daryl. Anything but his son.

&&&&

Daryl sat mournfully on the couch. It was nearly midnight. He was worn out, but knew he couldn't sleep. He'd dozed a little between phone calls. It seemed like all he'd done was talk, talk, talk. His mom had called, Taggart had called twice, his grandparents. Even Blair, who was back out on duty, had called. For some reason, that call was the hardest.

The television still flickered. He had the sound turned low, unable to turn it off. Why hadn't they been able to stop it? He thought of his dad, sitting at the table every weekend, fighting with his duty schedule, never having enough people to go around. It had all been for nothing.

Daryl angrily tossed the remote on the couch cushions. This afternoon he'd only wanted to come home. Now he couldn't stand to be here. He went to the kitchen window and checked his watch. Even with everything that was going on, the PD was sending a car by every hour. They'd be by in a few minutes.

Daryl grabbed his coat and locked up the house. He'd flag them down and talk them into taking him to the station. If they wouldn't take him, he'd damn well walk and they couldn't stop him.

&&&&

"Hey, Chief. You want to wake up, buddy?"

Blair opened his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Six. It's still dark outside. Another shift's coming in. We can go."

Blair rubbed his forehead. "My neck aches."

"Might have something to do with sleeping like a pretzel in a hospital waiting room. I felt the same way when you came to get me."

"Okay, I'm alive. Where to?"

"The station. The whole place may be nuts, but I haven't given up on Simon. I want to talk with Joel."

"Let's do it."

&&&&

Daryl rolled to his side and rubbed his eyes. The couch in his dad's office wasn't very comfortable, but it was better than sleeping at home, alone in an empty house. At least here, he had a sense that his dad could walk through the door any second. Maybe it was the hint of his cigars in the air, or the angel collection, or one of the other familiar objects. He ran his hands over the leather of the couch. He remembered coming here with his dad when he'd been promoted to Major Crime. He must have been about ten, bouncing on the furniture and digging in the drawers. The thought brought tears to his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was lose it.

He checked his watch and sighed. For having slept a few hours, he sure didn't feel very rested. He pushed aside the coat he'd used as a blanket, sat up and stretched. Joel hadn't been too pleased to see him last night, but at least he hadn't kicked him out. They'd talked the last time around two. Daryl opened the blinds and looked out into the bullpen. Everybody in the place looked the same way; worn out and worried.

Avoiding everyone he could, he slipped out and went to the restroom, taking extra time to scrub the sleep from his face. The reflection in the mirror seemed like someone he didn't know. His eyes were puffy, he was wearing yesterday's clothes and he needed a shave. His dad wouldn't be pleased to see him so scruffy. Captain Banks was always meticulous about his appearance. Daryl could remember plenty of times when he'd been sent back to his room for a more appropriate outfit. His dad kept an electric razor in his desk. Maybe he wouldn't mind if he borrowed it.

He ran into Rhonda on the way back. She teared up, and Daryl did too. He covered by helping her with the boxes of food she was carrying. He let her explain the obvious without comment. Detectives would be coming back to the station and they'd need to eat. He promised to start some fresh coffee while she went back to her car for the juice she'd purchased. It was a relief to be left alone again.

He wandered back to his dad's office, nibbling on a blueberry muffin. It tasted like sand, but he realized he was hungry. He'd never gotten around to ordering anything last night. He sank into the oversized chair behind his dad's desk, feeling very alone and abandoned. If only his dad would walk through the door. Then everything would be okay.

He fiddled with the familiar objects on the desk and noticed the folder. The sticky note attached was from Serena. She'd been sent to Seattle, but left the forensics report for Joel. Daryl hesitated, and then opened the cover. He might not understand all of it, but there couldn't be any harm in reading it.

&&&&

Fischer closed the door gently and slipped the lock. Their last session with Banks had not gone well. At least the man would give them no problems for a few hours. He motioned Ibrahim to follow. "No sign of the boy?" he asked.

Ibrahim shook his head. "The house was empty."

"A disappointment," Fischer remarked with a sigh. He was tired and restless. "Without the boy, I do not think our good Captain will indulge us. It would have been, as the Americans put it, icing on the cake. Time to move ahead."

Ibrahim nodded solemnly. "And our other plans? Shall I remain?"

Fischer shook his head. "No. Our guest will give us no problems. Send for Joseph, since we intend to use him. You have been to the mosque?"

"Yes." Ibrahim's eyes flashed in anger. "Instead of rejoicing, they condemn. The fools."

"Be calm, my friend." Fischer said, placing his hand on the other man's elbow. "This is why we must show them the way, goad them to the righteous anger they should already feel. When we are finished, they will be brothers in the struggle instead of apologists. Are there special gatherings being planned?"

"Yes." Ibrahim dug a paper from his pocket. "I made a list."

"Excellent." Fischer scanned the list. "We will begin with the mosque this afternoon, but I predict the school will be especially productive. How can a true Muslim man fail to avenge his child or wife?"

"How indeed?" answered Ibrahim with a smile.

&&&&

It all seemed so futile.

Daryl flipped through each page of the forensics report a second time. More meaningless junk. No conclusive fingerprints. No blood other than the coat. No notes. No – nothing. The black goo in the tire treads had been identified as decaying leaves. Now there was a big surprise. Leaves on the street in Cascade, a city that had trees everywhere.

He sighed. Fifth grade science, the trip to the arboretum. Walking all over, looking at every kind of tree there was, getting bored and wrestling with his friends, getting in trouble. They'd had a test by walking around the school and identifying trees. Firs and pines, big leaf maples, vine maples, birches, flowering cherries – he remembered all those, but this said walnut. Black walnut, to be exact. He didn't remember anything about walnuts. What did walnuts look like, other than in cookies? Were there very many of them?

He turned on his dad's computer and peeked under the second angel for the password. Okay, so his dad wasn't a computer genius. Unless games counted, neither was he. His hands were shaking as he went to the keyboard. Pictures, he needed pictures. He went to the Cascade City website, the city arborist, the arboretum, banging on the keyboard in frustration when he hit a dead end or the net was slow.

"Hey, Daryl. You're here."

Daryl nearly jumped out of his skin. "You scared me!"

"Sorry. Didn't mean to." A very tired Blair Sandburg sank into a chair. "Jim went straight for the food. Did you get some?"

"I ate a muffin. It wasn't very good. It was nice of Rhonda to bring them. She's really upset."

"We're all upset. Have you seen Taggart?"

"Not since last night. He said he'd be back. Where were you?"

"Defending the hospital. I guess that's what we were doing. Mostly we were putting medical teams on busses and sending them to Seattle." They sat for few moments, staring at each other, running out of conversation. Jim spotted them through the window and came in.

"Here, Chief, we've got food. Hey, Daryl. You spend the night?"

"Yeah, the house got too quiet." Jim doled out the food and they ate in silence for a few minutes. "Guys, do you know anything about walnut trees?"

Blair looked at him owlishly. "Walnut trees? Excuse me, Daryl, but why do you care about walnut trees? Today, of all days?"

"Well – I – look, don't get mad. Serena left the forensics report for Joel and I was reading it." Sheepishly, Daryl handed it across the desk. "She said the slimy stuff in the tires was decaying black walnut leaves."

"Yeah, so?" Jim said absently as he read.

"Well, according to the internet, there aren't that many of them around. They're big and messy and not used for landscaping much anymore. So I was thinking…"

Blair was already out of his chair. "Let me see that," he said, standing behind Daryl to look at the computer.

&&&&

"That's it, right over there, 851 West 43rd. Pull over." Jim awkwardly shifted into reverse. "Take it easy, Jim. Those are my ribs."

Jim just glared. Three in the truck was a tight fit, but Daryl had absolutely refused to be left behind. They stood together on the sidewalk, staring at the tree that towered over them.

Blair hastily checked his notes. "It's eighty feet tall, which I suppose is why it’s a Heritage Tree. What are we, about five blocks from Mrs. What's-her-name's house?"

"About, but this can't be the tree we need," Jim said. "It's not close enough to the street."

Blair crossed the street and walked along the edge of the sidewalk. "Look at the gutter along here. See how there are still some leaves all mashed up in the gutter?"

"Slow down," Jim said. "What makes you think this muck is from a walnut tree."

Daryl had joined them and gave him a withering look. "Duh. Maybe the pieces of hulls and shells."

Jim did a double-take. Blair shrugged.

"What do you think, Chief?" Jim asked.

"We can check around," Daryl pleaded. "We have those pictures from the Arbor guy. He said that walnut trees are mostly in older neighborhoods. We know what to look for. Wide branches, black bark – we can do this."

"Of course we will, as in me and Sandburg," Jim said pointedly. "You on the other hand, are staying in the truck."

"But –"

Jim crowded Daryl, looking him eye to eye. "In. The. Truck. Right now."

Blair patted Daryl sympathetically on the shoulder. "You may as well give it up, man. I used to hear it all the time. Why don't you mark the map with the locations that look promising? There's another Heritage Tree, a big one, about three blocks over. Keep track for us."

Daryl's rebellious expression said everything. Blair started to reason him, but Jim sighed, reached for his cuffs and snicked them around Daryl's wrist while he was concentrating on Sandburg.

"Don't even!" Daryl started as Jim unceremoniously dragged him toward the truck. Daryl started to tug in the opposite direction, and Jim quickly bent the young man's arm behind his back and frog-marched him to the driver's side. He calmly snapped the other cuff around the steering wheel.

Daryl was sputtering in anger. Jim stepped back and waved him off. "I recommend you sit down and get comfortable."

"I can't believe you're doing this!" Daryl shouted. "This is my idea! My lead!"

"It is, and a good one. And Daryl, you can holler all you want, but I'd rather cramp your style than have your dad cramp mine. You lose to your dad, hands down. Come on, Chief."

"You shit! Don't you leave me here!" Daryl shouted furiously.

"He'll get over it," Jim said, trying to appear nonchalant as they walked away.

"Sure, Jim," Blair said smirking. "Whatever you say. I can't believe you did that."

"You had a better idea?" Jim snapped.

"You lead, I follow. It's not that I don't agree. I just see his point. How do you want to do this?"

"What else can we do? Walk it first."

They circled the block, passing by the truck with its fuming occupant. "If looks could kill," Blair said. "I'm going to hide when you let him go." They worked down the opposite sidewalk, then back through the alleys, talking with everyone they could find.

&&&&

Joseph was nearly shaking with excitement. To think that the commander had sent for him! Surely he must be pleased with his performance. He looked out the window of the bus, imagining the heroic tasks that might lie ahead. Perhaps the commander would allow him to drive a car regularly, as Ibrahim did. He could be so much more useful if he wasn't always riding a bus, doing minor errands.

He checked his watch. The commander had told him to arrive at the house at one o'clock sharp, but he was much too excited to wait until then. Surely, arriving early would only be impressive, show how eager he was to serve. All the lonely days he'd spent in this cold, miserable city, the hours of learning the profane tongue of these Americans, all that could be forgotten. Today, today he would be important. His parents, his brothers would honor his name.

The bus had barely pulled to a stop before he bolted off, eager to be on his way.

&&&&

"Thank you, Mrs. Hopewell. You've been a big help." Blair sighed. Thank God for little old ladies who like to garden, but, man, you sure couldn't rush them. He had two more locations they'd need to check out, but it would be easier to drive a few blocks. He motioned to Jim. Maybe it was time to call in a few other teams and start a serious house to house.

Jim started toward him, but turned away. Another neighbor, two doors down from Mrs. Hopewell, had come out onto her porch. Blair settled back. Jim could handle this one. Down the street, Blair noticed a slight, dark-haired young man walking hurriedly in their direction. Feeling incredibly fatigued, he hung back, waiting for the newcomer to come nearer before approaching him.

&&&&

Joseph noticed the man dressed in jeans. He'd never seen him before, but he didn't seem very threatening. The man was about his own height, and looked like the students at the community college he was supposed to be attending. Not that he'd been inside a classroom, despite what his student visa said. Besides, he had more important things to think about.

He was nearly abreast of the man when he started speaking. Joseph couldn't quite follow the words, other than several questions. Then Joseph froze. The man was holding something out to him – a badge. This man was an official of some kind. In his excitement, he hadn't been paying attention. How many times had the commander lectured them? He knew every word by heart: approach slowly, don't walk directly toward the house until the area was clear, don't call attention to yourself. How could he have been so stupid?

In total panic, Joseph turned and ran.

&&&&

"Jim! Jim, we've got a runner!"

Jim wheeled at the sound of his partner's voice. Blair was in headlong pursuit. Jim had no idea why, but if the guy was running, that was reason enough to ask him a few questions. The guy had a good lead. Blair wasn't slow, but with that distance, in this neighborhood, they could easily lose him. If Blair could at least keep him in sight, maybe he could get to the truck and cut him off. In fact, the guy was running in the direction of the truck.

The thought was barely formed when Daryl came flying out of the truck, laying a tackle worthy of the NFL on their runner. The guy went flat and didn't seem to be moving. Blair got there first, with Jim right behind.

"Did I kill him?" Daryl shouted, trying to untangle himself.

Blair put a knee firmly in the man's back. "Cascade PD – stay down, man. It's okay, Daryl, he just has the wind knocked out of him." Blair pulled their surprise guest to his feet and pushed him back towards the side of the truck. The man was struggling for breath, his eyes wide in panic.

Jim held up his badge about two inches from the guy's nose. "Cascade PD. What's your name? What are you running from?"

Blair was patting him down. Apparently he'd felt something, because he was digging through the guy's coat pocket. Jim came up on his shoulder and kept up the questioning. They weren't getting any answers.

"Oh, my God. That's my dad's."

It was Daryl, staring at a leather object in Sandburg's hand. His dad's cigar case, the case he'd given to him, had come out of this guy's pocket. Daryl threw himself forward, swinging wildly. "You son of a bitch! Where's my dad? Where's my dad?"

"Daryl, stop! Stop!" Blair managed to get Daryl in a hold and drag him a few feet away.

"That's his cigar case. I gave it to him." He lunged again, barely held in check, shouting and sobbing. "Let me have him. How'd you get it? Where is my dad?"

Still struggling in Blair's arms, Jim pushed the two of them away. "You're under arrest," Jim said crisply to their prisoner. He hauled the cringing man up by his collar with a shake. "I'm not feeling patient. Start talking."

&&&&

They were going to kill him. He was sure of it.

Joseph lay facedown in the back of a pickup truck. The young black man was sitting next to him, waiting to pounce. The men's conversation had been so confusing. Could this truly be the policeman's son? How could this be? Certainly, certainly, he was a dead man.

His stupidity was beyond comprehension. He vaguely remembered picking up the case from the parking lot. It had fallen on the ground when he'd thrown the coat, and he'd forgotten about it. Why hadn't he thrown it away? How could he been so stupid?

There were more men coming, big angry men. They were searching each house. It was only a matter of time. They would find the police captain. If they found him alive, would they release him? Surely, the commander had executed the infidel by now, and they would do the same to him.

He started to struggle and was firmly pushed down. He could sense the anger, the hate radiating from his captor. He relaxed again, realizing the hopeless nature of his predicament. The son would avenge the father. He could understand that, as a matter of family honor.

Besides, if these men didn't kill him, the commander would.

&&&&

"He's got to be close."

"I agree." Taggart looked at his meager team. Jim, Blair, Henri, with Rafe on the way. "I don't want to wait. House to house. Teams of two, and stay together, no exceptions. I don't want anyone alone."

"We'll knock on every door," Henri said grimly.

"If no one answers, knock the door down," Taggart said emphatically. He ignored their shocked looks. "I want every house searched."

"Warrants?" Blair asked.

"For now, that cigar case is my warrant," Taggart said forcefully. "They can bust me down to patrolman, or fire my ass. Simon's here somewhere, I can feel it. Someone else can worry about legality."

"We're going to get killed in court," Henri muttered.

"So be it. I could care less at this point about building a case. I want him back. Alive."

They split up, Taggart and Brown working together. They leapfrogged houses, working as quickly as they dared. If the house was empty, they searched. If someone was home, they apologized and searched anyway. They didn't get many sustained protests.

Blair could hardly keep pace with his partner. Jim was totally focused, using his senses to hurry the search. On their third house there was no answer. Jim kicked down the door, entered the house and stopped dead in the dingy hallway.

"Jim? What?"

"Blood. I smell blood."

"Where?"

"Upstairs. I'm sure of it." Jim took the narrow stairs two at a time. The smell of fresh blood burned his nostrils.

Blair ran out into the yard and shouted for Taggart and Brown. They came on the third call. "Jim has something. Blair ran to follow Jim, confident that the other two men were right behind.

He found Jim on the second floor, throwing kick after kick at an already battered door. This was an old home and the doors were solid wood. This one had a heavy lock besides. Someone really didn't want visitors in there. Finally, the jamb cracked slightly under Jim's furious assault. Taggart, who had just arrived with Henri, threw all his powerful bulk at the door. On Jim's next kick, the bolted door exploded inward. Jim crashed through the debris into the room. A lone figure was sprawled on the floor.

"Simon!" Jim went to his knees, checking his friend.

"Brown, get an ambulance," Taggart shouted. "Now!" He joined Jim at Simon's side.

Simon groaned. "Daryl – did they get Daryl? My boy…"

Jim helped him raise up slightly. "Easy, easy. Daryl's outside, he's fine. He's been with us the whole time."

"Thank God," Simon breathed, leaning back into Jim's arms.

"Who did this, Simon?" Taggart asked.

"Don't know." Simon grabbed at his old friend's shirt. "Terrorists. Wanted a tape – wouldn't –"

"It's okay, Simon," Taggart said gently. "It's over. We're here now. Just rest."

"Nooo!" Simon pulled frantically, weak as he was, barely getting the words out. "Bombs – today – they left to - they're attacking today. Find them!"

"Oh, dear God," Blair whispered. "I'll call it in."

Simon lay there, anguished, as if they still didn't understand. "Not here. Warehouse. They left to go there. Back – back pocket – gloves."

Carefully, Jim pulled a paper from Simon's pocket. He unfolded it carefully, reading aloud. "Try to escape – it's instructions." He looked at Simon, who was nodding. "Did the kidnappers put this up?"

Simon managed a nod. "Took it – prints – on the tape."

"Go, man!" Taggart said. "I'll stay with Simon. Get us a lead, Jim. Not this time, not in our city. We need to get these bastards."

Jim transferred Simon to Taggart's hold and dashed for the door. He nearly collided with Daryl, who rushed headlong past him. "Dad!" He slid across the stained floor on his knees. Painfully, Simon wrapped one arm weakly around his son. Battered and aching, for the first time since he'd been jumped in the alley, Simon relaxed.

&&&&

Ibrahim pressed himself against the car that shielded him. Even from this vantage point several blocks away, it was obvious. Vehicles of all kinds, marked and unmarked, were parked in the middle of the street. Their safe house was no longer safe. An ambulance stood waiting, and a stretcher was being carried from the house. The police captain had undoubtedly been rescued.

Joseph was being led away by police officers. Ibrahim cursed. Of course, it would have been Joseph. As Reynard had always said, the boy was a worthless fool. What had he been doing here, anyway? He wasn't supposed to arrive until early afternoon. How had he single-handedly managed to bring all this down around their heads? Only Joseph could be so stupid. He deserved to die a painful death, his family cursed through all time.

The futility of the situation hit Ibrahim full force. They must salvage what they could. He turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction, abandoning his vehicle, ducking between the houses and over fences at the earliest opportunity. He stayed out of sight, trying to put distance between himself and the concentration of police.

How could they have come so far, only to have it collapse? As soon as he felt he'd gone a safe distance, he called on the cell phone they had reserved for absolute emergencies.

 

_"What is wrong?"_

_"Police are at the house."_

_"Are you safe?"_

_"Yes. They have Joseph."_

_"I should have killed him with my own hands."_

_"He can tell them very little. He's never been to the warehouse. We could proceed."_

_"And end up in Egypt, my friend? Life in some CIA chain link cage? No. We have lost the element of surprise. We can begin again, somewhere else."_

_"The ferry?"_

_"I will bring our alternate papers. We will be out of the country before the hunt is up. We will fight another day..."_

 

Epilogue:

"Here he is – the one and only!" Daryl said, opening the door for his father. To the sound of applause, Simon Banks returned to his home for the first time in a week. The members of Major Crime were gathered, enjoying their first time off since being called on alert.

Simon settled into his favorite chair with a sigh. "Thanks, everyone. It's good to be home. Is that pizza I smell?" He held up his heavily bandaged hands, still healing from the painful sessions with his captors. "Now how am I supposed to eat?"

"Got it covered," Blair answered. "You get pizza hors d'oeuvres." Simon gave a shout of laughter when he saw the plate full of bite size pizza chunks, each stabbed with a fluffy toothpick.

"Come on, guys," Jim said, bringing more boxes of pizza and plates. "Time to eat. Tonight we celebrate."

"Hey," said Brown between bites, "I want the full recap. We've all been too busy to get the whole story."

"What we think, or what we know?" Jim asked.

"Both."

Jim sighed. "Not that the feds are going to tell us anything. They're pretty sure the explosives for Seattle were stored in that house. They found trace residues in the basement. Simon just happened to walk into the transfer.

We traced the rented house where our illustrious Captain was held back to Reynard Fischer, German national, major importer. Prints from his office matched the note Simon pocketed. By the time we figured it out, he was long gone. He's probably out of the country, or setting up shop somewhere else. All of his bank accounts, U.S. and European, had been cleaned out by the time someone got to them. We're talking millions."

"That's a scary thought," Rafe said. "What about the kid? The one with Captain's cigar case?"

Jim snorted. "Never got the chance to interrogate him. Disappeared into federal custody. Those damn Feds took him right out of our holding cell without so much as a conversation. Forget anything like paperwork." Simon threw him a warning look. "Oh, yeah. I forgot. We're not supposed to talk about that. Us lowly members of the Cascade PD being such potential security risks, and borderline incompetent."

"So all we know is that the guys with the brains evaporated?" Brown asked. "Damn."

"Fischer's not the one I'm worried about," said Joel. "I looked over the stuff we recovered from the warehouse linked to Fischer. Those bombs were art – malevolent art. Whoever built that stuff – and I don't think it was Fischer – is a genius. If we don't catch them, we'll see his work again. They had sketches, detailed plans." Joel stopped for a moment, clearly troubled. "I don't understand these people. They were going to blow up a mosque, a Muslim school. People of their own faith."

"And then murder Simon after taping his so-called confession. Get everyone at each other's throats. Violence begets violence," Blair said softly. "Throw the spark and light the flame. Religious retaliation. Turn the state of Washington into the Palestinian territories." He shook his head. "That's not faith, not by any reasonable definition."

An uneasy silence filled the room. Blair finally broke the silence, trying to change the mood. "Wait a minute. You," he said, pointing an accusing finger at Daryl. "Jim cuffed you into the truck. How did you get out?"

The room went dead quiet. Daryl was absolutely shamefaced. Simon started to snicker, then roared with laughter. "That's a family joke. Daryl learned how to pick a pair of cuffs when he was about nine." He flashed an amused grin at Jim. "Sorry, Ellison. You've gotta be a little more careful when you cuff a cop's kid. He was probably out before you walked half a block."

Daryl shrugged, still looking guilty. "Sorry. I've had a nail in my wallet for years."

"I must be getting old," Jim said, disgusted and laughing at the same time.

"Enough of this terrorist talk," Joel interrupted. "This is a celebration. I propose a toast," he said, raising his glass. "Here's to having everyone safe and sound."

As he raised his glass, Jim leaned close to Blair and whispered, "Safe? I wonder."

Blair nodded, but lifted his glass all the same. For tonight, only this moment, and the people they cared about, mattered.

THE END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at Idol Pursuits.


End file.
